Cream of Tannahill's Songs (3)/When Rosie was faithfu'

by Robert Tannahill

For other versions of this work, see The Harper of Mull.

WHEN ROSIE WAS FAITHFU’.

When Rosie was faithful, how happy was I,
Still gladsome as summer the time glided by;
I played my harp cheery, while fondly I sang
Of the charms of my Rosie the winter nights lang:
But now I'm as waefu’ as waefu’ can be,
Come summer, come winter, ’tis a’ ane to me,
For the dark gloom of falsehood sae clouds my sad soul,
That cheerless for aye is the Harper of Mull.

I wander the glens and the wild woods alane,
In their deepest recesses I make my sad mane,
My harp’s mournful melody joins in the strain
While sadly I sing of the days that are gano:
Tho’ Rosie is faithless, she’s no the less fair,
And the thought of her beauty but feeds my despair;
With painful remembrance my bosom is full,
And weary of life is tho Harper of Mull.

As slumbering I lay by the dark mountain stream,
My lovely young Rosio appeared in my dream;
I thought her still kind and I ne’er was sae blest,
As in fancy I clasped the dear nymph to my breast;
Thou false fleeting vision, too soon wert thou o’er,
Thou wak’dst me to tortures unequalled before;
But death’s silent slumbers my grief soon shall lull,
And tho green grass wave over the Harper of Mull.

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O ROW THEE IN MY HIGHLAND PLAID.

Lowland lassie wilt thou go
Where the hills are clad with snow,
Where, beneath tho icy steep,
The hardy shepherd tends his sheep?
Ill nor wae shall thee betide,
When row’d within my Highland plaid.

Soon the voice of cheery spring
Will gar a' our plantings ring;
Soon our bonny heather braes
Will put on their summer claes;
On the mountain's sunny side,
We'll lean on us my Highland plaid.

When the summer spreads the flow'rs,
Busks the glens in leafy bow'rs,
Then we'll seek the calor shade,
Lean us on the primrose bed;
While the burning hours preside,
I'll screen thee wi' my Highland plaid.

Then we'll leave tho sheep and goat,
I will launch the bonny boat,
Skim the loch in canty glee,
Rest the oars to pleasure thee;
When chilly breezes sweep the tide,
I'll hap thee wi' my Highland plaid.

Lowland lads may dress mair fine,
Woo in words mair saft than mine;
Lowland lads ha'e mair of art,
A' my boast's an honest heart,
Whilk shall ever be my pride;
O row thee in my Highland plaid!

Bonny lad, ye've been sae leal,
My heart would break at our fareweel;
Lang your love has made me fain,
Take me—take me for your ain!
Cross the Firth, away they glide,
Young Donald and his Lowland bride.

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