Glen-Orra.
[This and the three following songs originally appeared in "The Harp of Renfrewshire," published at Paisley in 1819.]
The gale is high, the bark is light,
Swiftly it glides the dark sea over,
Why bear, ye waves, so base a freight,
Why waft, ye winds, a vagrant lover.
Wake, artless maid, thy dream is o'er,
No bright'ning hope can gild to-morrow,
Thy lover hails a distant shore,
Nor thinks of thee far in Glen-Orra.
The moon is up, the maiden's gone,
Where flower and tree the night dews cover,
To weep by mountain streamlet lone,
O'er perjur'd vows of faithless lover,
Turn, faithless wretch, seek Orra's wild,
To rapture raise the maiden's sorrow,
Ah! see where love so lately smil'd,
Cold, cold, she sinks in dark Glen-Orra.
The moon hangs pale o'er Orra's steep,
And lists a hapless maiden sighing,
The sullen night-winds, cavern'd, sleep,
As loth to rave o'er maiden dying.
The hue of death has blench'd the lip,
The rosy cheek is pale with sorrow,
Ere morn, death's chilly hand shall nip
The loveliest flower in green Glen-Orra.
Anna.
[John Sim.—Air, "Ye banks and braes," &c.]
O fare thee weel, fair Cartha's side,
For ever, ever fare thee weel!
Upon thy banks I've oft enjoy'd
What virtuous love alone can feel.
With Anna as I fondly stray'd,
And mark'd the gowan's hamely mien,
The vi'let blue, the primrose gay,
Enrich'd the joyful fairy scene.
The sun had set, the western clouds
Began to lose their radiance bright,
The mavis' tuneful note was hush'd.
And all proclaim'd approaching night;
Then was the time I fondly pour'd
In Anna's ear my ardent tile,
She blush'd, and oft I fondly thought
That love like mine would soon prevail.
She spoke, she look'd as if she lov'd,
Yet, ah! how false was Anna's heart!
Though heavenly fair her angel form,—
How fraught with guile, how full of art!
Now far from Anna, far from home,
By Lugar's stream I sadly mourn;
I think on scenes I still must love,
On scenes that never can return.
O fare thee weel, fair Cartha's banks,
And Anna—O!—a long fareweel!
Nor ever may that pang be thine,
Which my sad heart so oft doth feel.
But happy, happy may'st thou be,
By fairy scenes on Cartha's side,
And may a better far than me,
Through life be thy true love and guide.
Her kiss was soft.
[James Yool, of Paisley.—Air, "What this heart o' mine."]
Her kiss was soft and sweet,
Her smiles were free and fain,
And beaming bright the witching glance
Of her I thought my ain.
That kiss has poison'd peace,
Her smiles have rous'd despair,
For kindly though her glances be,
They beam on me nae mair.
Now lonely's every haunt
That I once trode with joy,
And dull and drear the sacred grove
Where we were wont to toy.
The rose can please nae mair,
The lily seems to fade,
And waefu' seems the blackbird's sang,
That us'd to cheer the glade.
This bosom once was gay,
But now a brow of gloom
Pourtrays, in characters of care,
That it is pleasure's tomb.
