Volume Iv Part 4 (1/2)
[5] ”Poems, Songs, and Miscellaneous Pieces.” Edinburgh, 1847, 12mo.
THE WILD GLEN SAE GREEN.
AIR--_”The Posy, or Roslin Castle.”_
When my flocks upon the heathy hill are lying a' at rest, And the gloamin' spreads its mantle gray o'er the world's dewy breast, I'll take my plaid and hasten through yon woody dell unseen, And meet my bonnie la.s.sie in the wild glen sae green.
I'll meet her by the trysting-tree, that's stannin' a' alane, Where I hae carved her name upon yon little moss gray stane, There I will fauld her to my breast, and be mair bless'd I ween Than a' that are aneath the sky, in the wild glen sae green.
Her head reclined upon this heart, in simple bliss I'll share The pure, pure kiss o' tender love that owns nae earthly care, And spirits hovering o'er us shall bless the heartfelt scene, While I woo my bonnie la.s.sie in the wild glen sae green.
My fauldin' plaid shall s.h.i.+eld her frae the gloamin's chilly gale; The star o' eve shall mark our joy, but shall not tell our tale-- Our simple tale o' tender love--that tauld sae oft has been To my bonnie, bonnie la.s.sie, in the wild glen sae green.
It may be sweet at morning hour, or at the noon o' day, To meet wi' those that we lo'e weel in grove or garden gay; But the sweetest bliss o' mortal life is at the hour o' e'en, Wi' a bonnie, bonnie la.s.sie, in the wild glen sae green.
O! I could wander earth a' o'er, nor care for aught o' bliss, If I might share, at my return, a joy sae pure as this; And I could spurn a' earthly wealth--a palace and a queen, For my bonnie, bonnie la.s.sie, in the wild glen sae green!
SCOTIA'S THISTLE.
Scotia's thistle guards the grave, Where repose her dauntless brave; Never yet the foot of slave Has trode the wilds of Scotia.
Free from tyrant's dark control-- Free as waves of ocean roll-- Free as thoughts of minstrel's soul, Still roam the sons of Scotia.
Scotia's hills of h.o.a.ry hue, Heaven wraps in wreathes of blue, Watering with its dearest dew The heathy locks of Scotia.
Down each green-wood skirted vale, Guardian spirits, lingering, hail Many a minstrel's melting tale, As told of ancient Scotia.
When the shades of eve invest Nature's dew-bespangled breast, How supremely man is blest In the glens of Scotia!
There no dark alarms convey Aught to chase life's charms away; There they live, and live for aye, Round the homes of Scotia.
Wake, my hill harp! wildly wake!
Sound by lee and lonely lake, Never shall this heart forsake The bonnie wilds of Scotia.
Others o'er the ocean's foam Far to other lands may roam, But for ever be my home Beneath the sky of Scotia!
THE LAND OF GALLANT HEARTS.
Ours is the land of gallant hearts, The land of lovely forms, The island of the mountain-harp, The torrents and the storms; The land that blooms with freeman's tread, And withers with the slave's, Where far and deep the green woods spread, And wild the thistle waves.
Ere ever Ossian's lofty voice Had told of Fingal's fame, Ere ever from their native clime The Roman eagles came, Our land had given heroes birth, That durst the boldest brave, And taught above tyrannic dust, The thistle tufts to wave.
What need we say how Wallace fought, And how his foemen fell?
Or how on glorious Bannockburn The work went wild and well?