'Twas na for a faithless luve's fause vows,
Nor a brither upo' the wave,
That I saw them fa'—no, they were drapt
On an aged father's grave.
Though joy may dimple her bonnie mou',
An' daftin' may banish care,
In nae blythsome mood, nor hour o' bliss,
Will these een e'er glint sae fair.
Farewell.
[James Murray.—Here first printed.]
When we're parted, think not thou
I'll forget our plighted vow—
Other looks from other eyes—
Other whispers—other sighs—
Other forms, though fair they be,
Shall not wean my soul from thee.
Oft as balmy twilight flings
Dewdrops from her dusky wings—
Oft as coming morn again
Trembles in the sparkling main,
Shall my fervent prayer be—
Light of life and joy, to thee!
When the noonday sun is high,
Flaming in the arching sky—
When the swain, with toil opprest,
Seeks the shade and sinks to rest,
Then, in fancy wild and free,
I will live that hour with thee.
Isabell.
[Here first printed.—Air, "My heart is sair for somebody."]
O sweet is summer's scented breath,
When flowers bloom rich in muir and dell,
But sweeter far, and bonnier baith,
Is rosy-cheeked Isabell.
O my dear Isabell,
O my lovely Isabell,
Time may change, and hearts may range,
But still I'll love my Isabell.
O what to me were wealth or worth?
O what were blessed life itsel'?
Or what the joys and gems of earth,
Without the love of Isabell?
O my dear Isabell,
O my lovely Isabell,
She's a' to me that saint should be,
My joy and jewel Isabell.
I feel that poverty is bless'd,
It has mair joys than tongue can tell;
For were I rich, I'd ne'er possess'd
The bosom love of Isabell.
O my dear Isabell,
O my lovely Isabell,
I bless my lot, because it's got
My rosy-cheeked Isabell.
Culloden.
[Nicholson.—Air, "O, are ye sleeping, Maggie?"]
The heath-cock craw'd o'er muir and dale,
Red raise the sun, the sky was cloudy,
While must'ring far wi' distant yell,
The northern bands march'd stern and steady.
O! Duncan, Donald's ready!
O! Duncan, Donald's ready!
Wi' sword an' targe he seeks the charge,
An' frae his shouther flings the plaidie.
Nae mair we chase the fleet-foot roe,
O'er down an' dale, o'er mountain flyin':
But rush like tempests on the foe,
Through mingled groans the war-note cryin'.
O! Duncan, Donald's ready! &c.
A prince is come to claim his ain,
A stem o' Stuart, frien'less Charlie;
What Highlan' han' its blade wad hain?
What Highlan' heart behint would tarry?
O! Duncan, Donald's ready!
I see our hardy clans appear,
The sun back frae their blades is beamin';
The southron trump falls on my ear,
Their banner'd lion's proudly streamin'.
Now, Donald, Duncan's ready!
Now, Donald, Duncan's ready!
Within his hand he grasps his brand;
Fierce is the fray, the field is bluidy!
