Come to the luxuriant skies,
Whilst the landscape's odours rise;
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,
And songs, when toil is done,
From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd
Curls yellow in the sun.
Star of love's soft interviews!
Parted lovers on thee muse;
Their remembrancer in heaven
Of thrilling vows thou art,
Too delicious to be riven
By absence from the heart.
Low Germanie.
[Allan Cunningham.]
As I sail'd past green Jura's isle,
Among the waters lone,
I heard a voice—a sweet low voice,
Atween a sigh and moan:
With ae babe at her bosom, and
Another at her knee,
A mother wail'd the bloody wars
In Low Germanie.
Oh woe unto these cruel wars
That ever they began,
For they have swept my native isle
Of many a pretty man:
For first they took my brethren twain,
Then wiled my love frae me.
Woe, woe unto the cruel wars
In Low Germanie.
I saw him when he sail'd away,
And furrow'd far the brine,
And down his foes came to the shore,
In many a glittering line:
The war-steeds rush'd amang the waves,
The guns came flashing free,
But could nae keep my gallant love
From Low Germanie.
Oh say, ye maidens, have ye seen,
When swells the battle cry,
A stately youth with bonnet blue
And feather floating high,—
An eye that flashes fierce for all,
But ever mild to me?
Oh that's the lad who loves me best
In Low Germanie.
Where'er the cymbal's sound is heard,
And cittern sweeter far,—
Where'er the trumpet blast is blown,
And horses rush to war;
The blithest at the banquet board,
And first in war is he,
The bonnie lad, whom I love best,
In Low Germanie.
I sit upon the high green land,
When mute the waters lie,
And think I see my true love's sail
Atween the sea and sky.
With ae bairn at my bosom, and
Another at my knee,
I sorrow for my soldier lad
In Low Germanie.
The Hills o' Gallowa'.
[Thomas Cunningham.—Born 1776: died 1834.]
Amang the birks sae blythe an' gay,
I met my Julia hameward gaun;
The linties chauntit on the spray,
The lammies loupit on the lawn;
On ilka howm the sward was mawn,
The braes wi' gowans buskit bra',
An' gloamin's plaid o' gray was thrawn
Out owre the hills o' Gallowa'.
Wi' music wild the woodlands rang,
An' fragrance wing'd alang the lea,
As down we sat the flowers amang,
Upon the banks o' stately Dee.
My Julia's arms encircled me,
An' saftly slade the hours awa',
Till dawin coost a glimmerin' e'e
Upon the hills o' Gallowa'.
It isna owsen, sheep, and kye,
It isna gowd, it isna gear,
This lifted e'e wad ha'e, quoth I,
