Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

For it's jet, jet black, an it's like a hawk,
An' it winna let a body be!

In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
In vain to me the violets spring;
In vain to me, in glen or shaw,
The mavis and the lintwhite sing.

And maun I still, &c.

The merry ploughboy cheers the team,
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks,
But life to me's a weary dream,

A dream of ane that never wauks.

And maun I still, &c.

The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the leaves the ducklings cry,
The stately swan majestic swims,
And every thing is blest but I.

And maun I still, &c.

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, And owre the moorland whistles shill; Wi' wild, unequal, wandering step

I meet him on the dewy hill.

And maun I still, &c.

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.
And maun I still, &c.

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging bend the naked tree;
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
When nature all is sad like me!

CHORUS.

And maun I still on Menie doat,

And bear the scorn that's in her ee?
For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk,
An' it winna let a body be!

TUNE-Roslin Castle.

The gloomy night is gathering fast,
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast ;
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o'er the plain;
The hunter now has left the moor,
The scatter'd coveys meet secure;
While here I wander, prest with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

The Autumn mourns her ripening corn
By early Winter's ravage torn;
Across her placid, azure sky,

She sees the scowling tempest fly:
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave;
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.

'Tis not the surging billow's roar,
'Tis not that fatal, deadly shore;
Though death in every shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear:
But round my heart the ties are bound,
That heart transpierced with many a wound;
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales, Her heathy moors and winding vales;

The scenes where wretched fancy roves,
Pursuing past, unhappy loves!

Farewell, my friends! Farewell, my foes!
My peace with these, my love with those
The bursting tears my heart declare,
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr!

TUNE-Gilderoy.

From thee, Eliza, I must go,

And from my native shore;
The cruel fates between us throw
A boundless ocean's roar :
But boundless oceans, roaring wide,
Between my love and me,

They never, never can divide
My heart and soul from thee.
Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear,
The maid that I adore!
A boding voice is in mine ear,
We part to meet no more;

But the last throb that heaves my heart,

While death stands victor by,

That throb, Eliza, is thy part,

And thine that latest sigh!

TUNE-I had a horse, I had nae mair.
Now westlin winds, and slaughtering guns,
Bring autumn's pleasant weather;
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings,
Amang the blooming heather:

Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain,
Delights the weary farmer;

And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night To muse upon my charmer.

The partridge loves the fruitful fells;
The plover loves the mountains;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells;
The soaring hern the fountains:
Through lofty groves the cushat roves,
The path of man to shun it;

The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush,
The spreading thorn the linnet.

Thus every kind their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender;
Some social join, and leagues combine;

Some solitary wander.
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,
Tyrannic man's dominion;

The sportsman's joy, the murdering cry,
The fluttering, gory pinion!

But, Peggy dear, the evening's clear,
Thick flies the skimming swallow;
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading-green and yellow :
Come let us stray our gladsome way,
And view the charms of nature;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And every happy creature.

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
Till the silent moon shine clearly;
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,
Swear how I love thee dearly:
Not vernal showers to budding flowers,
Not autumn to the farmer,

So dear can be as thou to me,

My fair, my lovely charmer!

TUNE-" Soldier's Joy."

I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars, And show my cuts and scars wherever I come;

This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. Lal de daudle, &c.

My 'prenticeship I past where my leader breath'd his last,

When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram; I served out my trade when the gallant game was play'd, And the Moro low was laid at the sound of the drum. Lal de daudle, &c.

I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batteries, And there I left for witnesses an arm and a limb: Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of the drum. Lal de daudle, &c.

And now, though I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg,

And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum,
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my callet,
As when I used in scarlet to follow the drum.

Lal de daudle, &c.

What though with hoary locks I must stand the windy shocks,

Beneath the woods and rocks, oftentimes for a home; When the tother bag I sell, and the tother bottle tell, I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of the drum. Lal de daudle, &c.

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »