9
THE SCOTTISH BLUE BELLS.
Words by CHARLES D. SILLERY, Music by G.BARKER. Key-note E.
LET the proud Indian boast of his jessamine bowers, His pastures of perfume and rose-covered dells; While humbly I sing of those wild little flowers, The blue bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue bells. Wave, wave your dark plumes, ye proud sons of the mountain, For brave is the chieftain your prowess who quells, And dreadful your wrath as the foam-flashing fountain That calms its wild waves 'mid the Scottish blue bells. Then strike the loud harp to the land of the river, The mountain, the valley, with all their wild spells, And shout in the chorus for ever and ever, The blue bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue bells.
Sublime are your hills when the young day is beaming, And green are your groves with their cool crystal wells, And bright are your broadswords like morning dew gleam- On blue bells of Scotland, on Scottish blue bells. [ing, Awake! ye light fairies that trip o'er the heather, Ye mermaids arise from your coralline cells, Come forth with your chorus all chanting together! The blue bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue bells. Then strike the loud harp to the land of the river, The mountain, the valley, with all their wild spells, And shout in the chorus for ever and ever, The blue bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue bells.
_(1850)_-_divider_(medium).jpg)
OH, WAY LEFT I MY HAME?
Words by R. GILFILLAN. Music by P. M'LEOD. Key-note A.
Oh, why left I my hame? Why did I cross the deep? Oh, why left I the land where my forefathers sleep? I sigh for Scotia's shore, and I gaze across the sea, But I canna get a blink of my ain countrie.
The palm-tree waveth high, and fair the myrtle springs, And to the Indian maid the bulbul sweetly sings; But I dinna see the broom wi' its tassels on the lea, Nor hear the lintie's sang o' my ain countrie. Oh! here no Sabbath bell awakes the Sabbath morn, Nor song of reapers heard among the yellow corn: For the tyrant's voice is here, and the wail of slaverie; But the sun of freedom shines in my ain countrie.
There's a hope for every woe, and a balm for every pain, But the first joys of our heart come never back again. There's a track upon the deep, and a path across the sea, But the weary ne'er return to their ain countrie.
