There the loud roaring floods they are fallin',
By crags that are furrow'd and grey;
To her young there the eagle is callin',
Or gazin' afar for her prey.
Or low, by the birks on the burnie,
Whar the goat wi' her younglin's doth rest,
There oft I would lead thee my Mary,
Whar the blackbird has builded her nest.
Right sweet are our scenes i' the gloamin',
Whan the shepherds return frae the hill,
Aroun' by the banks o' Loch Lomon',
While bagpipes are soundin' sae shrill.
Right sweet is the low-setting sun-beam,
On the lake's bosom quiv'rin' seen;
But sweeter the smiles o' my Mary,
And kinder the blinks o' her een.
Thy looks would gar simmer seem sweeter,
An' cheer winter's bare dreary gloom;
With thee every joy is completer,
While true love around us should bloom.
The south'ren, in a' his politeness,
His airs and his grandeur may shine;
Our hills boast o' mair true discreetness,
An' his love is not equal to mine.
The banks of Tarf.
[Nicholson.—Tune, "Sin' my Uncle's dead."]
Where windin' Tarf, by broomy knowes,
Her siller wave sae saftly rows;
And mony a green-wood cluster grows,
An' hare-bells bloomin', bonnie, O.
Below a spreadin' hazle tree,
Fu' snugly hid whar nane could see,
While blinkin' love beam'd frae her e'e,
I met my bonnie Annie, O.
Her neck was o' the snaw-drap hue,
Her lips like roses wet wi' dew:
But O, her e'e, o' azure blue,
Was past expressin' bonnie, O.
Like threads o' gowd her flowin' hair,
That lightly wanton'd in the air;
But vain were a' my skill an' mair
To tell the charms o' Annie, O.
While smilin' in my arms she lay,
She whisperin' in my ear did say,
"O how could I survive the day,
Should ye prove fause, my Tammie, O!"
"While spangled fish glide to the main,
While Scotlan's braes shall wave wi' grain,
Till this fond heart shall break wi' pain,
I'll aye be true to Annie, O."
The Beltane winds blew loud an lang,
An' ripplin' raised the spray alang;
We cheerfu' sat, and chierfu' sang,
The banks o' Tarf are bonnie, O.
Tho' sweet is spring, whan young and gay,
An' blythe the blinks o' summer's day;
I fear nae winter, cauld and blae,
If blest wi' love an' Annie, O.
Now lanely I sit.
[Alex. Fullarton.—Tune, "Bonnie Dundee."]
Now lanely I sit 'neath the green spreading willow,
The loss o' my Johnnie in tears to deplore:
Loud blows the wind o'er the white foaming billow;
But the wild howling storm can awake him no more!
Bravely he fought on the hills of Vimiera,
Was doom'd at Corunna, with Moore, to lie low;
But bravely he fell, his brave comrades declare a',
While fearless he press'd on the ranks of the foe.
Oh! blirty and blae was the day when we parted!
And sair blew the blast on the bare naked tree:
But mild was the storm when compared wi' the tempest
That raved in my heart, and that blindit my e'e.
Fondly, but vainly, he strove for to cheer me,
And spak' o' braw days when again he'd be free:
But ah! never mair shall the sight o' my Johnnie
Bring joy to my heart, or yet gladden my e'e.
O sweet war the hours that I spent wi' my laddie,
And saft were the tales that he tauld in mine ear;
Light beat my heart as sae blythesome and cheerie
We met 'mang the breckans, when e'enin' was near:
Wild throbb'd my bosom as fondly he prest me,
And urged my consent, and derided delay;
But now ilka scene whar he kindly caress'd me
Gi'es pain, since my Johnnie lies cauld in the clay.
