Now my auld wife's gane awa'
Frae yon lane glen;
An' though simmer sweet doth fa'
On yon lane glen,
To me its beauty's gane,
For alake! I sit alane,
Beside the bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.
Marion.
[Robert Gilfillan.—Inscribed to his niece, Miss Marion Law Gilfillan.]
My own, my true-loved Marion!
No wreath for thee I'll bring;
No summer-gather'd roses fair,
Nor snow-drops of the spring!
O! these would quickly fade—for soon
The brightest flowers depart;
A wreath more lasting I will give—
A garland of the heart!
My own, my true-loved Marion!
Thy morn of life was gay,
Like to a stream that gently flows
Along its lovely way!
And now, when in thy pride of noon,
I mark thee, blooming fair;
Be peace and joy still o'er thy path,
And sunshine ever there!
My own, my gentle Marion!
Though 'tis a world of woe,
There's many a golden tint that falls
To gild the road we go!
And in this chequer'd vale, to me
A light hath round me shone,
Since thou came from thine Highland home
In days long past and gone!
My own, my true-loved Marion!
Cold, cold this heart shall be,
When I shall cease to love thee still—
To cheer and cherish thee!
Like ivy round the wither'd oak
Though all things else decay,
My love for thee shall still be green,
And will not fade away!
The Captive Huntsman.
[This beautiful song occurs in Sir Walter Scott's "Lady of the Lake."]
My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
My idle greyhound loathes his food,
My horse is weary of his stall,
And I am sick of captive thrall.
I wish I were as I have been,
Hunting the hart in forests green,
With bended bow and bloodhound free,
For that's the life is meet for me
I hate to learn the ebb of time,
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,
Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,
Inch after inch along the wall.
The lark was wont my matin ring,
The sable rook my vespers sing;
These towers, although a king's they be,
Have not a hall of joy for me.
No more at dawning morn I rise,
And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,
Drive the fleet deer the forest through,
And homeward wend with evening dew;
A blithesome welcome blithely meet,
And lay my trophies at her feet,
While fled the eve on wing of glee—
That life is lost to love and me.
The Hills of the Highlan’s.
[Nicholson.—Tune, "Ewe Buchts, Marion."]
Will ye go to the Highlan's, my Mary,
And visit our haughs and our glens?
There's beauty 'mang hills o' the Highlan's
The braw lawlan' lassie ne'er kens.
'Tis true we've few cowslips or roses,
Nae lilies grow wild on the lee;
But the heather its sweet scent discloses,
And the daisy's as sweet to the e'e.
See yon far heathy hills, whar they're risin',
Whose summits are shaded wi' blue;
There the fleet mountain roes they are lyin',
Or feedin' their fawns, love, for you.
