The waes o' Scotland.
[This is an abridged version of a Jacobite ballad by Allan Cunningham.]
When I left thee, bonnie Scotland,
O thou wert fair to see!
Fresh as a bonnie bride in the morn,
When she maun wedded be.
When I came back to thee, Scotland,
Upon a May morn fair,
A bonnie lass sat at our town end,
Kaming her yellow hair.
"Oh hey! oh hey!" sung the bonnie lass,
"Oh hey! and wae is me!
There's siccan sorrow in Scotland,
As een did never see.
Oh hey, oh hey, for my father auld!
Oh hey, for my mither dear!
And my heart will burst for the bonnie lad
Wha left me lanesome here."
I wander a' night 'mang the lands I own'd,
When a' folk are asleep,
And I lie o'er my father and mither's grave,
An hour or twa to weep.
O fatherless and motherless,
Without a ha' or hame,
I maun wander through my dear Scotland,
And bide a traitor's blame.
The Covenanter's Tomb.
[Written by James Hogg.—Set to music in Smith's Scottish Minstrel.]
Oh 'tis a heart-stirring sight to view,
Far to the westward stretching blue,
That frontier ridge, which erst defied
Th' invader's march, th' oppressor's ride.
The bloody field, for many an age,
Of rival nations' wasteful rage;
In latter times a refuge given,
To exiles in the cause of heaven.
Far inland, where the mountain crest
O'erlooka the waters of the west,
And 'midst the moorland wilderness,
Dark moss-cleughs form a drear recess,
Curtain'd with ceaseless mists, which feed
The sources of the Clyde and Tweed;
There injured Scotland's patriot band,
For faith and freedom made their stand,
When traitor kings, who basely sold
Their country's fame for Gallic gold,
Too abject o'er the free to reign,
Warn'd by a father's fate in vain—
In bigot fury trampled down
The race who oft preserved their crown—
There, worthy of his masters, came
The despots' champion, bloody Graham.
The human bloodhounds of the earth,
To hunt the peasant from his hearth!
Tyrants! could not misfortune teach,
That man has rights beyond your reach?
Thought ye the torture, and the stake,
Could that intrepid spirit break;
Which even in woman's breast withstood
The terrors of the fire and flood?
Yes—though the sceptic's tongue deride
Those martyrs who for conscience died;
Though modish history blight their fame,
And sneering courtiers hoot the name
Of men, who dared alone be free
Amidst a nation's slavery,—
Yet long for them the poet's lyre
Shall wake its notes of heavenly fire.
Their name shall nerve the patriot's hand,
Upraised to save a sinking land;
And piety shall learn to burn
With holier transports o'er their urn!
Sequester'd haunts!—so still—so fair,
That holy faith might worship there,—
The shaggy gorse and brown heath wave
O'er many a nameless warrior's grave.
Gloamin'.
[W. Gray.—Here first printed.—Tune, "Todlin' butt," &c.]
There's naething on yirth,
I ken to compare,
Wi' a walk in the gloamin',
