Step lightly o'er, gang saftly by,
Mak' rig and furrow clean,
And coil it up in fragrant heaps,—
We maun ha'e done at e'en:—
We maun ha'e done at gloaming e'en;
And when the clouds grow grey,
Ilk lad may kiss his bonnie lass
Amang the new-made hay!
Love’s Adieu.
[This song was written by Joseph Grant, a Kincardineshire peasant, who, amid toil and poverty, devoted his leisure hours to reading and the cultivation of his mind. He composed verses at the early age of fourteen; and when in his twenty-third year he published "Juvenile Lays," a collection of poems. Two years thereafter, he published "Kincardineshire Traditions" in one small volume. At a later period of his life he contributed several tales and sketches to "Chambers' Journal." He was engaged in preparing a volume of his tales for the press, when he was seized wth a cold, which settled on his lungs; and, returning home for the benefit of his native air, he died at Affrusk, in April, 1835, in the 30th year of his age.]
The e'e o' the dawn, Eliza,
Blinks over the dark green sea,
An' the moon's creepin' down to the hill tap
Richt dim an' drowsilie;
An' the music o' the mornin'
Is murmurin' alang the air;
Yet still my dowie heart lingers
To catch one sweet throb mair.
We've been as blest, Eliza,
As children o' earth can be,
Though my fondest wish has been nipt by
The bonds o' povertie;
An' through life's misty sojourn,
That still may be our fa',
But hearts that are linked for ever
Ha'e strength to bear it a'.
The cot by the mutterin' burnie,
Its wee bit garden an' field,
May ha'e mair o' the blessin's o' heaven
Than lichts on the lordliest bield.
There's mony a young brow braided
Wi' jewels o' far aff isles,
But woe may be drinkin' the heart-springs
While we see nought but smiles.
But adieu, my ain Eliza!
Where'er my wanderin's be,
Undyin' remembrance will mak' thee
The star o' my destinie;
An' weel I ken, thou loved one,
That aye till I return
Thou'lt treasure pure faith in thy bosom
Like a gem in a gowden urn.
Highland Coronach.
[From the "Lady's Poetical Album," Glasgow, 1830.]
I'll wake it no more
By Strath-Fillan's blue fountain,
By Achray's lonely shore,
Or Benledi's high mountain—
No more wake the sound
Of the hunter's bold bugle;
For in death's narrow mound
Lies my loved Coilantugal!
How oft has that horn
To the chase hailed his coming,
At the first break of morn,
Ere the bee raised its humming;
Ere the maid, blythe of mood,
To the ewe-bught was wending,—
While each spray of the wood
With the dew-drops was bending.
When the fox from the shade
Of the pine-wood was peeping;
When the deer through the glade
In the grey dawn was leaping;
When the mist of the hills
From the sun-rise was flying;
And no sound—save the rills
And the wild breezes sighing—
Then—oh, then—the far cry
Of his deep-baying beagle,
From her eyrie on high
