Though the casket that holds the rich jewel we prize,
Attracts not the gaze of inquisitive eyes;
Yet the gem that's within may be lovely and bright,
As the smiles of the morn or the stars of the night,
Then say not the Bard has turned old.
When the tapers burn clear and the goblet shines bright,
In the hall of his chief on a festival night,
I have smiled at the glance of his rapturous eye,
While the brim of the goblet laugh'd back in reply;
Then say not the Bard has turned old.
When he sings of the valorous deeds that were done,
By his clan or his chief in the days that are gone,
His strains then are various—now rapid—now slow,
As he mourns for the dead or exults o'er the foe;
Then say not the Bard has turned old.
When summer in gaudy profusion is dress'd,
And the dew-drop hangs clear on the violet's breast,
I list with delight to his rapturous strain,
While the borrowing echo returns it again;
Then say not the Bard has turned old.
But not summer's profusion alone can inspire
His soul in the song, or his hand on the lyre,
But rapid his numbers, and wilder they flow,
When the wintry winds rave o'er the mountains of snow;
Then say not the Bard has turned old.
I have seen him elated when the black clouds were riven,
Terrific and wild by the thunder of heaven,
And smile at the billows that angrily rave,
Incessant and deep o'er the mariner's grave;
Then say not the Bard has turned old.
When the eye that expresses the warmth of his heart,
Shall fail the benevolent wish to impart,—
When his blood shall be cold as the wintr'y wave,
And silent his harp as the gloom of the grave,—
Then say that the Bard has turned old.
Jamie o’ the Glen.
[This is an old and once popular song, but nothing is known of its author.]
Auld Rob, the laird o' muckle land,
To woo me was na very blate,
But spite o' a' his gear he fand
He came to woo a day owre late.
A lad sae blythe, sae fu' o' glee,
My heart did never ken,
And nane can gi'e sic joy to me
As Jamie o' the glen.
My minnie grat like daft, and rair'd,
To gar me wi' her will comply,
But still I wadna ha'e the laird,
Wi' a' his ousen, sheep, and kye.
A lad sae blythe, &c.
Ah, what are silks and satins braw?
What's a' his warldly gear to me?
They're daft that cast themsel's awa',
Where nae content or love can be.
A lad sae blythe, &c.
I cou'dna bide the silly clash
Came hourly frae the gawky laird!
And sae, to stop his gab and fash,
Wi' Jamie to the kirk repair'd.
A lad sae blythe, &c.
Now ilka summer's day sae lang,
And winter's clad wi' frost and snaw,
A tunefu' lilt and bonnie sang
Aye keep dull care and strife awa'.
A lad sae blythe, &c.
There’s none to soothe.
[James Yool.—Air, "Bonnie was yon rosy brier."]
There's none to soothe my soul to rest,
There's none my load of grief to share,
Or wake to joy this lonely breast,
Or light the gloom of dark despair.
Oft to the winds my grief I tell,
They bear along the mournful tale,
To dreary echo's rocky cell,
