Friends, sae near my bosom ever,
Ye ha'e render'd moments dear,
But, alas! whan forced to sever,
Then the stroke, oh! how severe.
Friends, that parting tear, reserve it,
Though 'tis doubly dear to me;
Could I think I did deserve it,
How much happier would I be!
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Scenes that former thoughts renew,
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Now a sad and last adieu!
The Pride o' the Glen.
[Written by James Macdonald.—Set to music by J. Fisher.]
O bonnie's the lily that blooms in the valley,
And fair is the cherry that grows on the tree;
The primrose smiles sweet as it welcomes the simmer,
And modest's the wee gowan's love-talking e'e;
Mair dear to my heart is that lowne cosy dingle
Whar late i' the gloamin', by the lanely "Ha' den,"
I met wi' the fairest e'er bounded in beauty,
By the banks o' the Endrick, the pride o' the glen.
She's pure as the spring cloud that smiles in the welkin,
An' blythe as the lambkin that sports on the lea;
Her heart is a fount rinnin' owre wi' affection;
And a warld o' feeling is the love o' her e'e.
The prince may be proud o' his vast hoarded treasures—
The heir o' his grandeur an' hie pedigree;
They kenna the happiness dwalt in my bosom
When alane wi' the angel o' lave and o' le.
I've seen the day dawn, in a shower drappin' goud,
The grass spread wi' dew, like a wide siller sea,
The clouds shinin' bricht in a deep amber licht,
And the earth blushin' back to the glad lift on hie;
I've dream'd o' a palace wi' gem-spangled ha's,
And proud wa's a' glitterin' in rich diamond sheen,
Wi' towers shinin' fair thro' the rose-tinted air,
And domes o' rare pearls and rubies atween.
I've sat in a garden mid earth's gayest flowers,
A' gaudily shawin' their beauteous dyes,
And breathing in calm the air's fragrant balm,
Like angels asleep on the plains o' the skies;
Yet the garden and palace and day's rosy dawning
Though in bless'd morning dreams they should aft come again,
Can ne'er be sae sweet as the bonnie young lassie
That bloom'd by the Endrick, the pride o' the glen.
The exile, in sleep, haunts the land o' his fathers,
The captive's ae dream is his hour to be free,
The weary heart langs for the morning ray's comin',
The oppress'd for his sabbath o' sweet libertie,
But my life's only hope, my heart's only prayer,
Is the day that I'll ca' the young lassie my ain,
Though a' should forsake me, wi' her I'll be happy
On the banks o' the Endrick, the pride o' the glen.
Love is timid.
[Words by Daniel Weir, Greenock.—Music by W. H. Moore.]
Love is timid, Love is shy,
Can you tell me, tell me why?
Ah! tell me, why true love should be
Afraid to meet the kindly smile
Of him she loves, from him would flee,
Yet thinks upon him all the while?
Can you tell me, tell me why
Love is timid, Love is shy?
Love is timid, Love is shy,
Can you tell me, tell me why?
True love, they say, delights to dwell
In some sequester'd lonely bower;
With him she loves where none can tell,
Her tender look in passion's hour.
Can you tell me, tell me why
Love is timid, Love is shy?
Love is timid, Love is shy,
Can you tell me, tell me why
Love, like the lonely nightingale,
Will pour her heart when all is lone;
Nor will repeat, amidst the vale,
Her notes to any but to one.
Can you tell me, tell me why
Love is timid, Love is shy?
