The Shipwreck.
[William Falconer.—Air, "The Mariner's Dirge."]
Ye lost companions of distress, adieu!
Your toils, and pains, and dangers are no more;
The tempest now shall howl unheard by you,
While ocean smites in vain the trembling shore.
On you the blast, surcharged with rain and snow,
In winter's dismal nights no more shall beat;
Unfelt by you the vertic sun may glow,
And scorch the panting earth with baneful heat.
The thundering drum, the trumpet's swelling strain
Unheard, shall form the long embattled line;
Unheard, the deep foundations of the main
Shall tumble, when the hostile squadrons join.
What though no funeral pomp, no borrowed tear,
Your hour of death to gazing crowds shall tell,
Nor weeping friends attend your sable bier,
Who sadly listen to the passing bell!
What tho' no sculptur'd pile your name displays,
Like those who perish in their country's cause!
What though no epic muse in living lays,
Records your dreadful daring with applause!
Yet shall remembrance from oblivion's veil
Believe your scene, and sigh with grief sincere,
And soft compassion, at your tragic tale,
In silent tribute pay her kindred tear.
The black-haired laddie.
[David Tough.—Air, "An gilleadh duth ciar duth."]
Alack, my sad heart! how it throbs wi' its sorrow;
I ne'er can awa' wi' the thoughts o' to-morrow;
My father he bargain'd to part wi' his Flora,
My black-hair'd dear laddie, O tak' me awa'!
My black-hair'd dear laddie, O tak' me awa'!
I flee frae the grey-headed laird an' my father,
I flee to my shepherd, wha trips owre the heather;
We aye were fu' glad when at e'en we'd forgather;
My black-hair'd dear laddie, tak' me awa'!
My black-hair'd, &c.
The story is tauld, an' her father's confounded,
The ha' wi' his rage an' rampagin' resounded;
The horn, an' the shout's spreadin' clamour, far sounded,
To tell wha the shepherd had carried awa'.
To tell, &c.
Owre hill, stream, an' valley, through bramble an' bracken,
They flew till the fugitives were overtaken;
They've torn them asunder, their tender hearts breakin';
The black-hair'd poor shepherd they drave him awa'.
The black-hair'd, &c.
The shepherd he look'd in a sad sort o' languish,
An' Flora, o'ercome, in a heart-breakin' aniruish,
Exclaim'd—"Frosty-headed laird ne'er shall extinguish
My love for the laddie they've driven awa'."
My love, &c.
Then, Flora, my life's saul, refrain thy sad sorrow,
Nor heed ye the purposed plan o' to-morrow,
The doitard is doited, the shepherds, dear Flora,
Ere morning's grey dawnin' will hae thee awa'.
Ere morning, &c.
The Rover o' Lochryan.
[Hugh Ainslie.—Set to music by R. A. Smith.]
The Rover o' Lochryan, he's gane
Wi' his merry men sae brave;
Their hearts are o' the steel, an' a better keel
Ne'er bowl'd owre the back o' a wave.
It's no when the loch lies dead in its trough,
When naething disturbs it ava;
But the rack, an' the ride o' the restless side
Or the splash o' the grey sea-maw.
It's no when the yawl an' the light skiffs crawl
Owre the breast o' the siller sea,
That I look to the west for the bark I lo'e best,
An' the Rover that's dear to me.
But when that the clud lays its cheeks to the flud,
An' the sea lays its shouther to the shore;
When the win' sings high, an' the sea-whaups cry
As they rise frae the whitening roar.
