Though fate should drag me south the line,
Or o'er the wide Atlantic sea;
The happy hours I'll ever min'
That I in youth ha'e spent in thee.
Thou bonnie wood, &c.
Langsyne, beside.
[Written by Tannahill.—Set to music by R. A. Smith.]
Langsyne, beside the woodland burn,
Amang the broom sae yellow,
I lean'd me 'neath the milkwhite thorn,
On nature's mossy pillow;
A' 'round my seat the flowers were strew'd,
That frae the wildwood I had pu'd,
To weave mysel' a simmer snood,
To pleasure my dear fellow.
I twined the woodbine round the rose,
Its richer hues to mellow,
Green sprigs of fragrant birk I chose,
To busk the sedge sae yellow.
The craw-flower blue, and meadow-pink,
I wove in primrose-braided link,
But little, little did I think,
I should have wove the willow.
My bonnie lad was forced afar,
Toss'd on the raging billow,
Perhaps he's fa'n in bluidy war,
Or wreck'd on rocky shallow;
Yet aye I hope for his return,
As round our wonted haunts I mourn,
And aften by the woodland burn,
I pu' the weeping willow.
A famous man.
[This song is introduced in the national opera of "Rob Roy." The words are taken, with some alterations, from a poem by Wordsworth, written on visiting Rob Roy's grave.]
A famous man was Robin Hood,
The English ballad-singer's joy,
But Scotland has a chief as good,
She has, she has her bold Rob Roy.
A dauntless heart Macgregor shows,
And wondrous length and strength of arm;
He long has quell'd his Highland foes,
And kept, and kept his friends from harm.
A famous man, &c.
His daring mood protects him still,
For this the robber's simple plan,
That they should take who have the will,
And they, and they should keep who can.
A famous man, &c.
And while Rob Roy is free to rove,
In summer's heat and winter's snow,
The eagle he is lord above,
And Rob, and Rob is lord below.
A famous man, &c.
Know’st thou the land.
[In imitation of Goethe.]
Know'st thou the land of the hardy green thistle,
Where oft o'er the mountain the shepherd's shrill whistle
Is heard in the gloamin' so sweetly to sound,
Where the red blooming heatlier and hair-bell abound?
Know'st thou the land of the mountain and flood,
Where the pine of the forest for ages hath stood,
Where the eagle comes forth on the wings of the storm,
And her young ones are rock'd on the high Cairngor'm?
Know'st thou the land where the cold Celtic wave
Encircles the hills which its blue waters lave;
Where the virgins are pure as the gems of the sea,
And their spirits are light as their actions are free?
'Tis the land of my sires, 'tis the land of my youth,
Where first my young heart glow'd with honour and truth,
Where the wild fire of genius first caught my young soul,
And my feet and my fancy roam'd free from control.
And is there no charm in our own native earth?
Does no talisman rest on the place of our birth?
Are the blue hills of Albyn not worthy our note?
Shall her sons' deeds in war, shall her fair, be forgot?
