It's then that I look to the thickening rook,
An' watch by the midnight tide;
I ken the wind brings my rover hame,
An' the sea that he glories to ride.
O merry he sits 'mang his jovial crew
Wi' the helm-heft in his hand,
An' he sings aloud to his boys in blue,
As his e'e's upon Galloway's land—
"Unstent an' slack each reef and tack,
Gi'e her sail, boys, while it may sit;
She has roar'd through a heavier sea afore,
An' she'll roar through a heavier yet.
When landsmen sleep, or wake an' creep,
In the tempest's angry moan,
We dash through the drift, and sing to the lift
O' the wave, that heaves us on."
Mary.
[Words by James Macdonald.—Music by Andrew Armour.—Here first printed.]
The winter's cauld and cheerless blast
May rob the feckless tree, Mary,
And lay the young flowers in the dust,
Whar anee they bloom'd in glee, Mary.
It canna chill my bosom's hopes—
It canna alter thee, Mary;
The summer o' thy winsome face
Is aye the same to me, Mary.
The gloom o' life, its cruel strife
May wear me fast awa', Mary;
An' lea'e me, like a cauld, cauld corpse
Amang the drifting snaw, Mary.
Yet 'mid the drift, wert thou but nigh,
I'd fauld my weary e'e, Mary;
And deem the wild and raging storm
A laverock's sang o' glee, Mary.
My heart can lie in ruin's dust,
And fortune's winter dree, Mary;
While o'er it shines the diamond ray
That glances frae thine e'e, Mary.
The rending pangs and waes o' life,
The dreary din o' care, Mary,
I'll welcome, gin they lea'e but thee
My lanely lot to share, Mary.
As o'er yon hill the evening star
Is wiling day awa', Mary,
Sae sweet and fair art thou to me
At life's sad gloamin' fa', Mary.
It gars me greet wi' vera joy,
Whene'er I think on thee, Mary,
That sic a heart, sae true as thine,
Should e'er ha'e cared for me, Mary.
Mary Macneil.
[From the Edinburgh Intelligencer, 23d December, 1840.—Air, "Kinloch of Kinloch."—Erskine Conolly, the author of this and several other sweet songs, was born "in Crail toun," Fifeshire, and died at Edinburgh, January 7th, 1843.]
The last gleam o' sunset in ocean was sinkin',
Owre mountain an' meadowland glintin' fare-weel;
An' thousands o' stars in the heavens were blinkin',
As bright as the een o' sweet Mary Macneil.
A' glowin' wi' gladness she lean'd on her lover,
Her een tellin' secrets she thought to conceal;
And fondly they wander'd whar nane might discover
The tryst o' young Ronald an' Mary Macneil.
O! Mary was modest, an' pure as the lily
That dew-draps o' mornin' in fragrance reveal;
Nae fresh bloomin' flow'ret in hill or in valley
Could rival the beauty of Mary Macneil.
She moved, and the graces play'd sportive around her;
She smiled, and the hearts o' the cauldest wad thrill;
She sang, an' the mavis cam' listenin' in wonder,
To claim a sweet sister in Mary Macneil.
But ae bitter blast on its fair promise blawin',
Frae spring a' its beauty an' blossoms will steal;
An' ae sudden blight on the gentle heart fa'in',
Inflicts the deep wound nothing earthly can heal.
The simmer saw Ronald on glory's path hiein'—
The autumn, his corse on the red battle-fiel';
The winter, the maiden found heart-broken, dyin';
An' spring spread the green turf owre Mary Macniel!
