Ye foam-crested billows allow me to wail,
Ere ye toss me afar from my loved native shore;
Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale,
The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more!
No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander,
And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave;
No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her,
For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave.
No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast,
I haste with the storm to a far distant shore,
Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest,
And joy shall revisit my bosom no more.
The Wanderer’s Return.
[Written by W. A. C. Shand, and first published in "The Edinburgh University Souvenir," 1883, a little volume of which the author was editor. Mr. Shand is a native of Aberdeen, and at present resident in Russia.]
Alone, alone, in the evening beam,
By the flowery marge of my native stream,
Weary, and wan, and faint I stand,
'Mid the old green bowers of my fatherland.
I hear the strain of the wandering rills,
In sob and swell 'mid the far-off hills;
Softly blent, as they dream along,
With the reaper's shout and the goatherd's song.
Oh, woe! oh, woe! that my heart should wear
The dull dark shadow of grief and care,
With wood, and lake, and stream unroll'd,
As fresh and fair as in times of old!
Again I turn to my father's hearth,
Hat it rings no more with the tones of mirth;
And I list in vain, in the sunset calm,
For the low glad note of the evening psalm.
The moon! the moon! but she looks not in
On childhood's laughter and manhood's din!
Lonely and dim her pale gleams fall
O'er broken lattice and crumbling wall!
My brethren! my brethren, where are they—where?
Are they gather'd yet round my mother's chair?
Do they wander still in the forests dim,
The strong of arm, and the fleet of limb?
Oh, no—oh, no—they shall weave no more,
By lake and dale as in days of yore,
In antique garland and wild festoon,
The starry blossoms and leaves of June!
Alone, alone, in the evening beam,
By the flowery marge of my native stream,
Weary, and wan, and faint I stand,
'Mid the old green bowers of my fatherland.
Wee Johnny Duncan.
[G. Crawfurd.—From the Ayr Advertiser, March 1842.]
Wee Johnny, puir man has nae mammy ava,
And his daddy was dead ere the daylight he saw,
An auld doited granny, and he, live their lane;
But wee Johnny Duncan is a' body's wean.
There's Nancy M'Kissock lives neist door but three,
Is kind to the bairn as a mither could be;
She gi'es him his sup, and she gi'es him his bane;
For wee Johnny Duncan is a' body's wean.
The Bailie's guid Lady has seven wee boys,
She spares their auld claes and their cast-away toys,
Round a muckle cock-horsey the thing's dancing fain;
O! wee Johnny Duncan is a' body's wean.
He's up at the Railroad, he's down at the Green,
And ilka bit lassie counts Johnny a frien',
The grocer gi'es candy and ally campaine;
For wee Johnny Duncan is a' body's wean.
He's into the Court house and laughs at the Deacon,
An' glowers at the Provost, an' stan's slyly keekin',
The crier says, laughing, "Boy, whar are ye ga'en?
O! come awa', Johnny, ye're a' body's wean."
In thy manhood, dear Johnny, forget not to say,
"In sorrow, and sickness, the Lord was my stay,"
And think on the days that can come not again,
When friends loved and cherished the wee orphan wean.
