The Book of Scottish Song/Eskdale Braes
Eskdale Braes.
[William Julius Mickle, translator of "The Lusiad."]
By the banks of the crystal-stream'd Esk,
Where the Wauchope her yellow wave joins,
Where the lambkins on sunny braes bask,
And wild woodbine the shepherd's bower twines,
Maria, disconsolate maid,
Oft sigh'd the still noontide away,
Or by moonlight all desolate stray'd,
While woeful she tuned her love lay:
Ah! no more from the banks of the Ewes
My shepherd comes cheerly along;
Broomholm and the Deans' banks refuse
To echo the plaints of his song.
No more from the echoes of Ewes,
His dog fondly barking I hear;
No more the tir'd bark he pursues,
And tells me his master draws near.
Ah! wae to the wars, and the pride
Thy heroes, O Esk, could display,
When with laurels they planted thy side,
From France and from Spain borne away.
Oh! why did their honours decoy
My poor shepherd lad from the shore?
Ambition bewitch'd the vain boy,—
And oceans between us now roar.
Ah! methinks his pale corpse floating by,
I behold on the rude billows tost;
Unburied his scatter'd bones lie,—
Lie bleaching on some distant coast.
By this stream and the May-blossom'd thorn,
That first heard his love tale, and his vows,
My pale ghost shall wander forlorn,
And the willow shall weep o'er my brows.
With the ghosts of the wars will I wail,
In Warblaw woods join the sad throng,
To Hallowe'en's blast tell my tale,
As the spectres, ungrav'd, glide along.
Still the Ewes rolls her paly blue stream,
Old Esk still her crystal tide pours,
Still golden the Wauchope waves gleam,
And still green, O Broomholm, are thy bow.
No: blasted they seem to my view,
The rivers in red floods combine;
The turtles their widowed notes coo,
And mix their sad ditties with mine.
Discolour'd in sorrow's dim shade,
All nature seems with me to mourn;—
But why are these merry bells play'd?
Can it be my dear Jamie's return?
The woodlands all May-blown appear!
The silver stream murmurs new charms!
As my Jamie, sweet-smiling, draws near,
And, all eager, I rush to his arms.