Part 6

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 lassie in the wild glen sae green.

My fauldin' plaid shall shield 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 lassie, 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 lassie, 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 lassie, 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 hoary 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? Ours is the land of gallant hearts, The land of honour'd graves, Whose wreath of fame shall ne'er depart While yet the thistle waves.

THE YELLOW LOCKS O' CHARLIE.

The gathering clans, 'mong Scotia's glens, Wi' martial steps are bounding, And loud and lang, the wilds amang, The war pipe's strains are sounding; The sky and stream reflect the gleam Of broadswords glancing rarely, To guard till death the hills of heath Against the foes o' Charlie.

Then let on high the banners fly, And hearts and hands rise prouder, And wake amain the warlike strain Still louder, and still louder; For we ha'e sworn, ere dawn the morn O'er Appin's mountains early, Auld Scotland's crown shall nod aboon The yellow locks o' Charlie.

While banners wave aboon the brave Our foemen vainly gather, And swear to claim, by deeds o' fame, Our hills and glens o' heather. For seas shall swell to wild and fell, And crown green Appin fairly, Ere hearts so steel'd to foemen yield The rights o' royal Charlie.

Then wake mair loud the pibroch proud, And let the mountains hoary Re-echo round the warlike sound That speaks of Highland glory. For strains sublime, through future time, Shall tell the tale unsparely, How Scotland's crown was placed aboon The yellow locks o' Charlie.

WE'LL MEET YET AGAIN.

We'll meet yet again, my loved fair one, when o'er us The sky shall be bright, and the bower shall be green, And the visions of life shall be lovely before us As the sunshine of summer that sleeps o'er the scene. The woodlands are sad when the green leaves are fading, And sorrow is deep when the dearest must part, But for each darker woe that our spirit is shading A joy yet more bright shall return to the heart.

We'll meet yet again, when the pain, disconcerting The peace of our minds in a moment like this, Shall melt into nought, like the tears of our parting, Or live but in mem'ry to heighten our bliss. We have loved in the hours when a hope scarce could find us; We've loved when our hearts were the lightest of all, And the same tender tie that has bound still shall bind us, When the dark chain of fate shall have ceased to enthral.

We'll meet yet again, when the spirit of gladness Shall breathe o'er the valley, and brighten its flowers, And the lone hearts of those who have long been in sadness Shall gather delight from the transport of ours; Yes, thine are the charms, love, that never can perish, And thine is the star that my guide still shall be, Alluring the hope in this soul that shall cherish Its life's dearest treasures, to share them with thee.

OUR AIN NATIVE LAND.

Our ain native land! our ain native land! There's a charm in the words that we a' understand, That flings o'er the bosom the power of a spell, And makes us love mair what we a' love so well. The heart may have feelings it canna conceal, As the mind has the thoughts that nae words can reveal, But alike he the feelings and thought can command Who names but the name o' our ain native land.

Our ain native land! our ain native land! Though bleak be its mountains and rugged its strand, The waves aye seem bless'd, dancing wild o'er the sea, When woke by the winds from the hills o' the free. Our sky oft is dark, and our storms loud and cauld, But where are the hearts that sic worth can unfauld As those that unite, and uniting expand, When they hear but the name o' our ain native land?

Our ain native land! our ain native land! To hear of her famed ones let none e'er demand, For the hours o' a' time far too little would prove To name but the names that we honour and love. The bard lives in light, though his heart it be still, And the cairn of the warrior stands gray on the hill, And songster and sage can alike still command A garland of fame from our ain native land.

Our ain native land! our ain native land! Her wild woods are glorious, her waterfalls grand, And her songs still proclaim, as they ring through the glen, The charms of her maids and the worth of her men. Her thistle shall cease in the breezes to wave, And the floweret to bloom on the patriot's grave, Ere we cease to defend, with our heart and our hand, The freedom and faith of our ain native land.

THE GRECIAN WAR SONG.

On! on to the fields, where of old The laurels of freedom were won; Let us think, as the banners of Greece we unfold, Of the brave in the pages of glory enroll'd, And the deeds by our forefathers done! O yet, if there's aught that is dear, Let bravery's arm be its shield; Let love of our country give power to each spear, And beauty's pale cheek dry its long-gather'd tear In the light of the weapons we wield. Awake then to glory, that Greece yet may be The land--the proud land of the famed and the free!

Rear! rear the proud trophies once more, Where Persia's hosts were o'erthrown; Let the song of our triumph arise on our shore, Till the mountains give back the far sounds, as of yore, To the fields where our foemen lie strewn! Oh ne'er shall our bold efforts cease Till the garlands of freedom shall wave In breezes, which, fraught with the tidings of peace, Shall wander o'er all the fair islands of Greece, And cool not the lip of a slave; Awake then to glory! that Greece yet may be The land--the proud land of the famed and the free!

FLORA'S LAMENT.

More dark is my soul than the scenes of yon islands, Dismantled of all the gay hues that they wore; For lost is my hope since the Prince of the Highlands 'Mong these, his wild mountains, can meet me no more. Ah! Charlie, how wrung was this heart when it found thee Forlorn, and the die of thy destiny cast; Thy Flora was firm 'mid the perils around thee, But where were the brave of the land that had own'd thee, That she--only she--should be true to the last?

The step's in the bark on the dark heaving waters, That now should have been on the floor of a throne; And, alas for auld Scotland, her sons and her daughters! Thy wish was their welfare, thy cause was their own. But 'lorn may we sigh where the hill-winds awaken, And weep in the glen where the cataracts foam, And sleep where the dew-drops are deep on the bracken; Thy foot has the land of thy fathers forsaken, And more--never more will it yield thee a home.

Oh! yet when afar, in the land of the stranger, If e'er on thy spirit remembrance may be Of her who was true in these moments of danger, Reprove not the heart that still lives but for thee. The night-shrouded flower from the dawning shall borrow A ray, all the glow of its charms to renew, But Charlie, ah! Charlie, no ray to thy Flora Can dawn from thy coming to chase the dark sorrow Which death, in thine absence, alone can subdue.

WHEN THE GLEN ALL IS STILL.

AIR--_"Cold Frosty Morning."_

When the glen all is still, save the stream of the fountain, When the shepherd has ceased o'er the dark heath to roam, And the wail of the plover awakes on the mountain, Inviting her mate to return to his home-- Oh! meet me, Eliza, adown by the wild-wood, Where the wild daisies sleep 'mong the low-lying dew, And our bliss shall be sweet as the visions of childhood, And pure as the fair star, in heaven's deep blue.

Thy locks shall be braided in drops of the gloaming, And fann'd by the far-travell'd breeze of the lawn; The spirits of heaven shall know of thy coming, And watch o'er our joy till the hour of the dawn. No woes shall we know of dark fortune's decreeing, Of the past and the future my dreams may not be, For the light of thine eye seems the home of my being, And my soul's fondest thoughts shall be gather'd to thee.

SCOTLAND YET.[6]

Gae, bring my guid auld harp ance mair,-- Gae, bring it free and fast,-- For I maun sing another sang Ere a' my glee be past; And trow ye as I sing, my lads, The burden o't shall be Auld Scotland's howes, and Scotland's knowes, And Scotland's hills for me-- I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet Wi' a' the honours three.

The heath waves wild upon her hills, And foaming frae the fells, Her fountains sing o' freedom still, As they dance down the dells; And weel I lo'e the land, my lads, That's girded by the sea; Then Scotland's dales, and Scotland's vales, And Scotland's hills for me-- I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet Wi' a' the honours three.

The thistle wags upon the fields Where Wallace bore his blade, That gave her foemen's dearest bluid To dye her auld gray plaid; And looking to the lift, my lads, He sang this doughty glee-- Auld Scotland's right, and Scotland's might, And Scotland's hills for me-- I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet Wi' a' the honours three.

They tell o' lands wi' brighter skies, Where freedom's voice ne'er rang; Gie me the hills where Ossian lies, And Coila's minstrel sang; For I've nae skill o' lands, my lads, That ken nae to be free; Then Scotland's right, and Scotland's might, And Scotland's hills for me-- I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet Wi' a' the honours three.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] This song, set to music by Mr Peter M'Leod, was published in a separate form, and the profits, which amounted to a considerable sum, given for the purpose of placing a parapet and railing around the monument of Burns on the Calton Hill, Edinburgh.

THE MINSTREL'S GRAVE.

I sat in the vale, 'neath the hawthorns so hoary, And the gloom of my bosom seem'd deep as their shade, For remembrance was fraught with the far-travell'd story, That told where the dust of the minstrel was laid: I saw not his harp on the wild boughs above me, I heard not its anthems the mountains among; But the flow'rets that bloom'd on his grave were more lovely Than others would seem to the earth that belong.

"Sleep on," said my soul, "in the depths of thy slumber Sleep on, gentle bard! till the shades pass away; For the lips of the living the ages shall number That steal o'er thy heart in its couch of decay: Oh! thou wert beloved from the dawn of thy childhood, Beloved till the last of thy suffering was seen, Beloved now that o'er thee is waving the wild-wood, And the worm only living where rapture hath been.

"Till the footsteps of time are their travel forsaking, No form shall descend, and no dawning shall come, To break the repose that thy ashes are taking, And call them to life from their chamber of gloom: Yet sleep, gentle bard! for, though silent for ever, Thy harp in the hall of the chieftain is hung; No time from the mem'ry of mankind shall sever The tales that it told, and the strains that it sung."

OUR OWN LAND AND LOVED ONE.

AIR--_"Buccleuch Gathering."_

No sky shines so bright as the sky that is spread O'er the land that gave birth to the first breath we drew-- Such radiance but lives in the eye of the maid That is dear to our heart--to our heart ever true.

With her--yes, with her that this spirit has bless'd, 'Neath my dear native sky let my home only be; And the valley of flowers, and the heath-covered waste, Shall alike have a spell of enchantment for me.

Let her eye pour its light o'er the joy of my heart, Or mingle its beam with the gloom of my woe, And each shadow of care from the soul shall depart, Save of care that on her it is bliss to bestow.

My thought shall not travel to sun-lighted isles, Nor my heart own a wish for the wealth they may claim, But live and be bless'd in rewarding her smiles With the song of the harp that shall hallow her name.

The anthems of music delightful may roll, Or eloquence flow as the waves of the sea, But the sounds that enchantment can shed o'er the soul Are--the lass that we love, and the land that is free!

THE BOWER OF THE WILD.

I form'd a green bower by the rill o' yon glen, Afar from the din and the dwellings of men; Where still I might linger in many a dream, And mingle my strains wi' the voice o' the stream. From the cave and the cliff, where the hill foxes roam, Where the earn has his nest and the raven his home, I brought the young flower-buds ere yet they had smiled, And taught them to bloom round my bower of the wild.

But the fair maidens came, from yon vale far away, And sought my lone grotto still day after day, And soon were the stems of their fair blossoms shorn That the flowers of the bard might their ringlets adorn. Full fair were they all, but the maiden most fair Would still have no flower till I pull'd it with care; And gentle, and simple, and modest, and mild, She stole my lone heart in the bower of the wild.

The summer is past, and the maidens are gone, And this heart, like my grotto, is wither'd and lone, And yet, with the winter, I'll cease not to mourn, Unless, with the blossoms, these fair ones return. Oh! had they ne'er come, or had ne'er gone away, I sing in my sorrow still day after day. The scene seems a desert--the charm is exiled, And woe to my blooms and my bower of the wild!

THE CROOK AND PLAID.

AIR--_"The Ploughman."_

I winna love the laddie that ca's the cart and pleugh, Though he should own that tender love, that's only felt by few; For he that has this bosom a' to fondest love betray'd, Is the faithfu' shepherd laddie that wears the crook and plaid; For he's aye true to his lassie--he's aye true to his lassie, Who wears the crook and plaid.

At morn he climbs the mountains wild his fleecy flocks to view, While o'er him sweet the laverock sings, new sprung frae 'mang the dew; His doggie frolics roun' and roun', and may not weel be stay'd, Sae blithe it is the laddie wi' that wears the crook and plaid; And he's aye true, &c.

At noon he leans him down upon the high and heathy fell, And views his flocks, beneath him a', fair feeding in the dell; And there he sings the sangs o' love, the sweetest ever made; O! how happy is the laddie that wears the crook and plaid; And he's aye true, &c.

He pu's the bells o' heather red, and the lily-flowers sae meek, Ca's the lily like my bosom, and the heath-bell like my cheek; His words are sweet and tender, as the dews frae heaven shed; And weel I love to list the lad who wears the crook and plaid; For he's aye true, &c.

When the dews begin to fauld the flowers, and the gloamin' shades draw on, When the star comes stealing through the sky, and the kye are on the loan, He whistles through the glen sae sweet, the heart is lighter made To ken the laddie hameward hies who wears the crook and plaid; For he's aye true, &c.

Beneath the spreading hawthorn gray, that's growing in the glen, He meets me in the gloamin' aye, when nane on earth can ken, To woo and vow, and there I trow, whatever may be said, He kens aye unco weel the way to row me in his plaid; For he's aye true, &c.

The youth o' mony riches may to his fair one ride, And woo across the table cauld his madam-titled bride; But I'll gang to the hawthorn gray, where cheek to cheek is laid, Oh! nae wooers like the laddie that rows me in his plaid; And he's aye true, &c.

To own the truth o' tender love what heart wad no comply, Since love gives purer happiness than aught aneath the sky? If love be in the bosom, then the heart is ne'er afraid; And through life I'll love the laddie that wears the crook and plaid; For he's aye true, &c.

THE MINSTREL'S BOWER.

AIR--_"Bonnie Mary Hay."_

Oh, lassie! if thou'lt gang to yonder glen wi' me, I'll weave the wilds amang a bonnie bower for thee; I'll weave a bonnie bower o' the birks and willows green, And to my heart thou'lt be what nae other e'er has been.

When the dew is on the flower, and the starlight on the lea, In the bonnie green-wood bower I'll wake my harp to thee; I'll wake my hill-harp's strain, and the echoes o' the dell Shall restore the tales again that its notes o' love shall tell.

Oh, lassie! thou art fair as the morning's early beam, As the image of a flower reflected frae the stream; There's kindness in thy heart, and there's language in thine e'e, But ah! its looks impart nae sweet tale o' love to me!

Oh, lassie! wert thou mine I wad love thee wi' such love As the lips can ne'er define, and the cold can never prove; In the bower by yonder stream our happy home should be, And our life a blissful dream, while I lived alone for thee.

When I am far away my thoughts on thee shall rest, Allured, as by a ray, frae the dwellings o' the blest; For beneath the clouds o' dew, where'er my path may be, Oh! a maiden fair as thou, I again shall never see!

WHEN THE STAR OF THE MORNING.

When the star of the morning is set, And the heavens are beauteous and blue, And the bells of the heather are wet With the drops of the deep-lying dew; 'Mong the flocks on the mountains that lie, 'Twas blithesome and blissful to be, When these all my thoughts would employ; But now I must think upon thee.

When noontide displays all its powers, And the flocks to the valley return, To lie and to feed 'mong the flowers That bloom on the banks of the burn; O sweet, sweet it was to recline 'Neath the shade of yon hoar hawthorn-tree, And think on the charge that was mine; But now I must think upon thee.

When Gloaming stole down from the rocks, With her fingers of shadowy light, And the dews of the eve in her locks, To spread down a couch for the night; 'Twas sweet through yon green birks to stray, That border the brook and the lea; But now, 'tis a wearisome way, Unless it were travell'd with thee.

All lovely and pure as thou art, And generous of thought and of will, Oh Mary! speak thou to this heart, And bid its wild beating be still; I'd give all the ewes in the fold-- I'd give all the lambs on the lea, By night or by day to behold One look of true kindness from thee.

THOUGH ALL FAIR WAS THAT BOSOM.

Though all fair was that bosom, heaving white, While hung this fond spirit o'er thee; And though that eye, with beauty's light, Still bedimm'd every eye before thee; Oh! charms there were still more divine, When woke that melting voice of thine, The charms that caught this soul of mine, And taught it to adore thee.

Then died the woes of the heart away With the thoughts of joys departed; For my soul seem'd but to live in thy lay, While it told of the faithful-hearted. Methought how sweet it were to be Far in some wild green glen with thee; From all of life and of longing free, Save what pure love imparted.

Oh! I could stray where the drops of dew Never fell on the desert round me, And dwell where the fair flowers never grew If the hymns of thy voice still found me. Thy smile itself could the soul invest With all that here makes mortals bless'd; While every thought thy lips express'd In deeper love still bound me.

WOULD THAT I WERE WHERE WILD WOODS WAVE.

Would that I were where wild woods wave Aboon the beds where sleep the brave; And where the streams o' Scotia lave Her hills and glens o' grandeur!

Where freedom reigns, and friendship dwells, Bright as the sun upon the fells, When autumn brings the heather-bells In all their native splendour. The thistle wi' the hawthorn joins, The birks mix wi' the mountain pines, And heart with dauntless heart combines For ever to defend her. Then would I were, &c.

There roam the kind, and live the leal, By lofty ha' and lowly shiel; And she for whom the heart must feel A kindness still mair tender. Fair, where the light hill breezes blaw, The wild-flowers bloom by glen and shaw; But she is fairer than them a', Wherever she may wander. Then would I were, &c.