Benlomond.
[John Mitchell.—Here first printed.]
Some may delight to spend their hours,
By limpid streamlets fring'd with flowers,
But give to me the wilds where towers
Thy rocky crest, Benlomond.
Through leafy groves young love may stray,
To sing the joys of rosy May,
But bolder tones must fire his lay
Whose theme's the proud Benlomond.
Dark clouds upon thy forehead rest,
Bed lightnings play around thy crest,
And storm runs riot on thy breast,
Thou heed'st them not, Benlomond.
But when gay summer's in her prime,
And balmy winds steal o'er our clime,
Who would not dare thy heights sublime
And glory in Benlomond.
There far above proud cities we
With wonder fill'd will lean on thee,
Awed by the gorgeous scenery
That round thee spreads, Benlomond.
Sublimity sits throned on thee,
Veil'd in the vast profoundity
That stills, or wakes the inland sea
That bathes thy feet, Benlomond.
The lass ayont the hill.
[James Macdonald.—Here first Printed.]
Gae range the warld baith far an' near,
Search ilka court an' gaudy ha',
Get titled dames wi' princely names,
I ken a lass wad ding them a'.
Bring a' the walth Peru can gi'e,
Or e'en Golconda's mines can shaw,
Rake up auld ocean's hoarded gear,
I ken a lass that's worth it a'.
Awa', fause loons, your artfu' wiles
Maun ne'er yon bonnie lassie spill,
Her name and hame I winna tell,
The bonnie lass ayont the hill.
Her cheeks are like the apple bud,
Her brow is white as drifted snaw,
Her lips are like the berries red,
That grow upon yon garden wa'.
It's sweet to see the roses blaw
Adown the holms o' Endrick lea,
But sweeter are the blinks o' luve
The bonnie lassie gi'es to me.
Yon milkwhite thorn now a' in bloom,
That sweetly scents the evening air;
Yon cloud a warld o' pearly snaw,
Are nae sae pure nor half sae fair.
Ilk colour that the heavens can gi'e
Does but ae lovely rainbow fill;
Sae a' that's sweet on earth is she,
The bonnie lass ayont the hill.
Gin I'd been born a belted knight,
Or laird of mickle gear an' Ian',
I wadna lay me down to sleep
Afore I gat her lily han'.
But waes my heart! I'm but a herd,
An' sae maun tether down my will;
Yet come what may, l'll climb the brae,
And see my lass ayont the hill.
The mighty Munro.
[William Finlay of Paisley.]
Come, brawny John Barleycorn, len' me your aid,
Though for such inspiration aft dearly I've paid,
Come cram up my noddle, and help me to show,
In true graphic colours, the mighty Munro.
O! could ye but hear him his stories rehearse,
Whilk the like was ne'er heard o', in prose or in verse,
Ye wad laugh till the sweat doon your haffets did flow,
At the matchless, magnificent, mighty Munro.
