Heaven send it happy dew,
Earth lend it sap anew,
Gaily to bourgeon, and broadly to grow,
While every Highland glen
Sends our shout back again,
"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! iero!"
Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;
When the whirlwind has stripp'd every leaf on the mountain,
The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade.
Moor'd in the rifted rock,
Proof to the tempest's shock,
Firmer he roots him, the ruder it blow;
Menteith and Breadalbane, then,
Echo his praise agen,
"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"
Proudly our pibroch has thrill'd in Glen Fruin,
And Bannochar's groans to our slogan replied;
Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin,
And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side.
Widow and Saxon maid
Long shall lament our raid.
Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe;
Lennox and Leven-glen
Shake when they hear agen,
"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"
Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands!
Stretch to your oars, for the ever-green Pine!
O! that the rose-bud that graces yon islands,
Were wreath'd in a garland around him to twine!
O! that some seedling gem,
Worthy such noble stem,
Honour'd and bless'd in their shadow might grow!
Loud should Clan-Alpine then
Ring from her deep-most glen,
"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"
Mary’s twa lovers.
[Written by Robert Lochore, about 1802, to the tune of "Bessie Bell and Mary Gray." This and the other song by the same author, given in p. 206, have only before appeared in a small local miscellany, entitled "The Temple of Apollo."]
Dear aunty, I've been lang your care,
Your counsels guid ha'e blest me;
Now in a kittle case ance mair
Wi' your advice assist me:
Twa lovers frequent on me wait.
An' baith I frankly speak wi';
Sae I'm put in a puzzlin' strait
Whilk o' the twa to cleek wi'.
There's sonsy James, wha wears a wig,
A widower fresh and canty;
Though turn'd o' sixty, gaes fu' trig,
He's rich, and rowes in plenty.
Tam's twenty-five, hauds James's pleug
A lad deserves regardin';
He's clever, decent, sober too,
But he's no worth ae fardin'.
Auld James, 'tis true, I downa see
But's cash will answer a' things;
To be a lady pleases me,
And buskit be wi' braw things.
Tam I esteem, like him there's few.
His gait and looks entice me;
But, aunty, I'll now trust in you.
And fix as ye advise me.
Then aunt, wha spun, laid down her roke,
An' thus reply't to Mary:
Unequal matches in a yoke
Draw thrawart an' camstrarie.
Since gentle James ye dinna like,
Wi' 's gear ha'e nae connexion;
Tam's like yoursel', the bargain strike,
Grup to him wi' affection.
O love delights.
[William Chalmers.—Tune, "Lewie Gordon."—Here first printed.]
O love delights in sunny bower,
'Mid sunny rays, like summer flower;
But when the storms o' winter blaw,
Its fairest beauties fade awa'.
The rose in youth may please awhile,
And youthful days wi' joy beguile,
The lily, too, with snowy crest,
May lean upon the rose's breast.
But love delights, &c.
What though the rose's blushes fade,
And lilies droop beneath the shade,
In dormant life they still remain,
To grow, to bud, to bloom again.
But love delights, &c.
