Sweet youth's a blythe and heartsome time:
Then, lads and lasses, while it's May,
Gae pou the gowan in its prime,
Before it wither and decay.
Watch the saft minutes o' delight,
When Jenny speaks below her breath,
And kisses, layin' a' the wyte
On you if she kep ony skaith.
Haith, ye're ill-bred, she'll smilin' say,
Ye'll worry me, ye greedy rook;
Syne frae your arms she'll rin away,
And hide hersel' in some dark neuk.
Her lauch will lead ye to the place,
Where lies the happiness ye want;
And plainly tell ye to your face,
Nineteen nay-says are hauf a grant.
Now to her heavin' bosom cling,
And sweitly tuilyie for a kiss;
Frae her fair finger whup a ring,
As taiken o' a future bliss.
These benisons, I'm very sure,
Are of kind heaven's indulgent grant;
Then, surly carles, wheesht, forbear
To plague us wi' your whinin' cant!
My Native Land.
[This beautiful national lyric is the production of Robert White of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, and is here printed for the first time. Mr. White, though long resident in England, is a native of Scotland; and the verses were suggested by an inquiry made by Mr. Patrick Maxwell, the editor of Miss Biamire's poems, as to whether or not he was a Scotsman. To Mr. Maxwell, therefore, the public is indebted as the cause of so fine a piece being produced, and we, in particular, have to express our obligations to him for his kindness in forwarding it to "The Book of Scottish Song," as well as another beautiful poem by the same author, called "The Mountaineer's Death," which will be found in another part of the work.]
Fair Scotland! dear as life to me
Are thy majestic hills;
And sweet as purest melody
The music of thy rills:
The wildest cairn, the darkest dell
Within thy rocky strand,
Possess o'er me a living spell—
Thou art my native land!
Loved country! when I muse upon
Thy dauntless men of old,
Whose swords in battle foremost shone—
Thy Wallace brave and bold.
And Bruce, who for our liberty
Did England's sway withstand—
I glory I was born in tnee,
My own ennobled land!
Nor less thy Martyrs I revere,
Who spent their latest breath
To seal the cause they held so dear,
And conquered even in death:
Their graves evince, o'er hill and plain,
No bigot's stern command
Shall mould the faith thy sons maintain,
My dear, devoted land!
And thou hast ties around my heart—
Attraction deeper still;
The gifted Poet's sacred art,
The Minstrel's matchless skill:
Yea, every scene that Burns and Scott
Have touched with magic hand,
Is in my sight a hallowed spot,
Mine own distinguished land!
O! when I wandered far from thee,
I saw thee in my dreams—
I marked thy forests waving free,
I heard thy rushing streams:
Thy mighty dead in life came forth;
I knew the honour'd band;
We spoke of thee—thy fame—thy worth,
My high exalted land!
Now, if the lowly home be mine
In which my fathers dwelt;
And I can worship at the shrine
Where they in fervour knelt;
No glare of wealth, or honour high,
Shall lure me from thy strand:
O! I would yield my parting sigh
In thee—my native land!
