1791

Lament Of Mary, Queen Of Scots, On The Approach Of Spring

Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree, And spreads her sheets o' daisies white Out o'er the gra.s.sy lea; Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, And glads the azure skies; But nought can glad the weary wight That fast in durance lies.

Now laverocks wake the merry morn Aloft on dewy wing; The merle, in his noontide bow'r, Makes woodland echoes ring; The mavis wild wi' mony a note, Sings drowsy day to rest: In love and freedom they rejoice, Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

Now blooms the lily by the bank, The primrose down the brae; The hawthorn's budding in the glen, And milk-white is the slae: The meanest hind in fair Scotland May rove their sweets amang; But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, Maun lie in prison strang.

I was the Queen o' bonie France, Where happy I hae been; Fu' lightly raise I in the morn, As blythe lay down at e'en: And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland, And mony a traitor there; Yet here I lie in foreign bands, And never-ending care.

But as for thee, thou false woman, My sister and my fae, Grim Vengeance yet shall whet a sword That thro' thy soul shall gae; The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee; Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe Frae woman's pitying e'e.

My son! my son! may kinder stars Upon thy fortune shine; And may those pleasures gild thy reign, That ne'er wad blink on mine!

G.o.d keep thee frae thy mother's faes, Or turn their hearts to thee: And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, Remember him for me!

O! soon, to me, may Summer suns Nae mair light up the morn!

Nae mair to me the Autumn winds Wave o'er the yellow corn?

And, in the narrow house of death, Let Winter round me rave; And the next flow'rs that deck the Spring, Bloom on my peaceful grave!

There'll Never Be Peace Till Jamie Comes Hame

By yon Castle wa', at the close of the day, I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey: And as he was singing, the tears doon came,-- There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

The Church is in ruins, the State is in jars, Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars, We dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame,-- There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, But now I greet round their green beds in the yerd; It brak the sweet heart o' my faithful and dame,-- There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

Now life is a burden that bows me down, Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown; But till my last moments my words are the same,-- There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

Song--Out Over The Forth

Out over the Forth, I look to the North; But what is the north and its Highlands to me?

The south nor the east gie ease to my breast, The far foreign land, or the wide rolling sea.

But I look to the west when I gae to rest, That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be; For far in the west lives he I loe best, The man that is dear to my babie and me.

The Banks O' Doon--First Version

Sweet are the banks--the banks o' Doon, The spreading flowers are fair, And everything is blythe and glad, But I am fu' o' care.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird, That sings upon the bough; Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause Luve was true: Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird, That sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wist na o' my fate.

Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon, To see the woodbine twine; And ilka birds sang o' its Luve, And sae did I o' mine: Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Upon its th.o.r.n.y tree; But my fause Luver staw my rose And left the thorn wi' me: Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Upon a morn in June; And sae I flourished on the morn, And sae was pu'd or noon!

The Banks O' Doon--Second Version

Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon, How can ye blume sae fair?

How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o care!

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird, That sings upon the bough!

Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause Luve was true.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird, That sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wist na o' my fate.

Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon, To see the woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its Luve, And sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Upon its th.o.r.n.y tree; But my fause Luver staw my rose, And left the thorn wi' me.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Upon a morn in June; And sae I flourished on the morn, And sae was pu'd or noon.

The Banks O' Doon--Third Version

Ye banks and braes o' bonie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?

How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary fu' o' care!

Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn: Thou minds me o' departed joys, Departed never to return.

Aft hae I rov'd by Bonie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine: And ilka bird sang o' its Luve, And fondly sae did I o' mine; Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its th.o.r.n.y tree!

And may fause Luver staw my rose, But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

Lament For James, Earl Of Glencairn

The wind blew hollow frae the hills, By fits the sun's departing beam Look'd on the fading yellow woods, That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding stream: Beneath a craigy steep, a Bard, Laden with years and meikle pain, In loud lament bewail'd his lord, Whom Death had all untimely ta'en.

He lean'd him to an ancient aik, Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years; His locks were bleached white with time, His h.o.a.ry cheek was wet wi' tears!

And as he touch'd his trembling harp, And as he tun'd his doleful sang, The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, To Echo bore the notes alang.

"Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing, The reliques o' the vernal queir!

Ye woods that shed on a' the winds The honours of the aged year!

A few short months, and glad and gay, Again ye'll charm the ear and e'e; But nocht in all-revolving time Can gladness bring again to me.

"I am a bending aged tree, That long has stood the wind and rain; But now has come a cruel blast, And my last hald of earth is gane; Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom; But I maun lie before the storm, And ithers plant them in my room.