Long, 'mid your sounding glades, in union sweet,
May rural innocence and beauty meet;
And still be duly heard, at twilight calm,
From every cot the peasant's chanted psalm!
Then, Jedworth, though thy ancient choirs shall fade,
And time lay bare each lofty colonnade,
From the damp roof the massy sculptures die,
And in their vaults thy rifted arches lie;
Still in these vales shall angel harps prolong,
By Jed's pure stream, a sweeter evening song
Than long processions, once, with mystic zeal,
Pour'd to the harp and solemn organ's peal.
Farewell to the Land.
Farewell to the land of the rock and the wild-wood,
The hill and the forest and proud swelling wave;
To the land where bliss smiled on the days of my childhood,
Farewell to thee, Scotia, thou land of the brave!
Far dearer to me are thy heath cover'd mountains,
Than Gallia's rich valleys, and gay fertile plains;
And dearer by far than her murmuring fountains,
The roar of the torrent, where liberty reigns.
Wherever I wander, sweet Isle of the ocean,
My thoughts still shall turn to thy wild rocky shore;
Ah! still shall my heart beat with fondest emotion,
While musing on scenes I may visit no more.
Adieu, then, dear land of romance and wild story,
Thy welfere and honour for ever shall be
The prayer of an exile, whose boast and whose glory,
Is the tie that still binds him, loved country, to thee!
The midges dance.
[Robt. Tannahill.—Air, "The Shepherd's Son."]
The midges dance aboon the burn,
The dews begin to fa',
The pairtricks down the rushy holm,
Set up their e'ening ca'.
Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang
Rings through the briery shaw,
While flitting, gay, the swallows play
Around the castle wa'.
Beneath the golden gloaming sky,
The mavis mends her lay,
The redbreast pours his sweetest strains,
To charm the ling'ring day,
While weary yeldrins seem to wail
Their little nestlings torn,
The merry wren, frae den to den,
Gaes jinking through the thorn.
The roses fauld their silken leaves,
The foxglove shuts its bell,
The honeysuckle, and the birk,
Spread fragrance through the dell.
Let others crowd the giddy court
Of mirth and revelry,
The simple joys that nature yields
Are dearer far to me.
Our bonnie Scots lads.
[Robert Tannahill.—Set to music by R. A. Smith.]
Our bonnie Scots lads, in their green tartan plaids,
Their blue-belted bonnets, and feathers sae braw,
Rank'd up on the green were fair to be seen,
But my bonnie young laddie was fairest of a'.
His cheeks were as red as the sweet heather-bell,
Or the red western cloud looking down on the snaw,
His lang yellow hair o'er his braid shoulders fell,
And the een o' the lasses were fix'd on him a'.
My heart sunk wi' wae on the wearifu' day,
When torn frae my bosom they march'd him awa',
He bade me fareweel, he cried, "O be leel,"
And his red cheeks were wat wi' the tears that did fa'.
Ah! Harry, my love, though thou ne'er shou'dst return,
Till life's latest hour I thy absence will mourn,
And memory shall fade, like the leaf on the tree,
Ere my heart spare ae thought on anither but thee.
