A gaudy dress and gentle air
May slightly touch the heart,
But it's innocence and modesty
That polishes the dart.
'Tis this in Nelly pleases me,
'Tis this enchants my soul;
For absolutely in my breast
She reigns without control.
The Banks of the Esk.
[Alex. Smart.—Here first printed.]
In life's sunny morning, by Esk's winding stream,
My days glided by like a beautiful dream,
And free as a bird I would carelessly rove,
Indulging fond visions of beauty and love.
Then nature was clad in her richest of green,
And youth's bounding pulse lent a charm to the scene,
While each living thing in its joy was a part
Of the gladness that found a sweet home in my heart.
By Esk's winding stream, in the pride of the year,
The banks are as green and the waters as clear,
But nature's soft verdure can never again
Impart the same feelings that gladdened me then.
Sweet home of my childhood! though far from my view,
In fancy's fond dreams I am ever with you;
And Oh! your remembrance can only depart
With the last throb of feeling that gladdens my heart.
My Highland Vale.
[Written by David Vedder. Music by Peter Macleod.]
Oh! the sunny peaches glow,
And the grapes in clusters blush;
And the cooling silver streams
From their sylvan fountains rush;
There is music in the grove,
And there is fragrance in the gale,
But there's nought sae dear to me
As my own Highland vale.
Oh! the queen-like virgin rose,
Of the dew and sunlight born,
And the azure violet
Spread their beauties to the morn;
So does the hyacinth,
And the lily pure and pale,
But I love the daisy best
In my own Highland vale.
Hark! hark, those thrilling notes;
'Tis the nightingale complains;
Oh! the soul of music breathes
In those more than plaintive strains
But they're not so dear to me
As the murmur of the rill,
And the bleating of the lambs
On my own Highland hill.
Oh! the flowerets fair may glow,
And the juicy fruits may blush,
And the beauteous birds may sing,
And the crystal streamlets rush,
And the verdant meads may smile,
And the cloudless sun may beam;
But there's nought beneath the skies,
Like my own Highland hame!
The blind lassie.
[Thomas C. Latto.— Here first printed.—Tune, "The Flower o' Dunblane."]
O hark to the strain that sae sweetly is ringin',
And echoing clearly o'er lake and o'er lea,
Like some fairy bird in the wilderness singin',
It thrills to my heart, yet nae minstrel I see.
Round yonder rock knittin', a dear child is sittin',
Sae toilin' her pitifu' pittance is won,
Hersel' tho' we see nae, 'tis mitherless Jeanie,—
The bonnie blind lassie that sits i' the sun.
Five years syne come autumn she cam' wi' her mither,
A sodger's puir widow, sair wasted an' gane;
As brown fell the leaves, sae wi' them did she wither,
And left the sweet child on the wide world her lane.
She left Jeanie weepin', in His holy keepin'
Wha shelters the lamb frae the cauld wintry win',
We had little siller, yet a' were good till her,
The bonnie blind lassie that sits i' the sun.
