This thought will cheer the minstrel's heart,—
Forget though others may,
That thou wilt sing the song, sweet child,
When I am far away.
Unknown to wealth and friendship too
Though oft the minstrel sings,
Give him his "fame," though small the due,
He'll laugh at crowns and kings,
Ev'n I—the thought is heaven to me—
Ev'n I my meed shall ha'e,
Since thou wilt sing the song, sweet child!
When I am far away.
Bessie.
[From "The Storm, and other Poems, by Francis Bennoch," London, 1841.]
Oh mony a year has come an' gane,
An' mony a weary day,
Sin' frae my hame—my mountain hame—
I first was lured away,
To wander over unco lands,
Far, far ayont the sea;
But no' to find a land like this,
The hame o' Bess an' me!
I've traversed mony a dreary land
Across the braid, braid sea;
But, oh, my native Highland home,
My thochts were aye wi' thee!
As constant as the sun did rise
And set ahint the sea,
Sae constant, Bessie, were my prayers
At morn an' nicht for thee!
When I return'd unto my hame,
The hills were clad wi' snow;
Though they look'd cold and cheerless, love,
My heart was in a glow:
Though keen the wintry north wind blew,
Like summer 'twas to me,
For, Bess, my frame was warm'd wi' love,
For country, kindred, thee!
Nae flower e'er hail'd wi' sweeter smiles
Returning sunny beams,
Than I did hail my native hame,
Its mountains, woods, and streams.
Now we are met, my bonnie Bess,
We never mair will part;
Although to a' we seem as twa,
We only ha'e ae heart!
We'll be sae loving a' the nicht,
Sae happy a' the day,
That, though our bodies time may change,
Our love shall ne'er decay:
As gently as yon lovely stream
Declining years shall run,
An' life shall pass frae our auld clay
As snow melts 'neath the sun.
Courtship.
[Francis Bennoch.]
Yestre'en, on Cample's bonnie flood,
The summer moon was shining;
While, on a bank in Crichope wood,
Two fond hearts were reclining:
They spak' o' youth an' hoary age,
O' time, how swiftly fleeting;
Of ilka thing, in sooth, but ane,—
The reason of their meeting!
When Willie thocht his heart was firm,
An' micht declare its feeling,
A glance frae Bessie's starry een
Sent a' his senses reeling;
For aye when he essay'd to speak,
An' she prepared to hear him,
The thochts in crimson dyed his cheek,
An' words would no' come near him!
But nature, gentle mither, came
In pity to assist him;
She whisper'd what he ought to do—
'Twas her advice that bless'd him!
He flung his arm around her neck,
Nor did the maid resent it;
Syne kiss'd her ripe and rosy lip—
A deed he ne'er repented.
'Tis ever thus that love is taught
By his divinest teacher;
He silent adoration seeks,
