O Leeze me on the Glen.
[James Macdonald.—Here first printed. The beautiful mountain stream of the Endrick rises among the hills south-west of Stirling, and passing in a rapid course by the villages of Fintry, Balfron, Killearn, and Drymen, it flows into Lochlomond, a few miles west from Buchanan House, the romantic seat of the Duke of Montrose.]
O leeze me on the glen that Summer makes her Eden ha',
And bigs her fairy bower in the depths o' the greenwood shaw;
The glen where the winds play their saftest, sweetest summer tune,
Amang the heather bells and the green waving woods o' June.
'Tis the glen of my boyhood, the cradle o' my happy days,
Still fondly my heart longs to roam o'er its broomy braes,
And listen to the sang o' the lintie on its whinny bed,
And wipe awa' the tear, for love and warm friendship fled.
Though torn frae thy lap where I first drank the balmy air,
Thy picture hangs untouched mid the canker o' writhing care;
Thy grey rugged cliffs and thy lowne lily-dappled dells,
Thy pale primrose banks, thy pure gurgling mountain wells,
Thy haughs spread wi' daisies, thy honey-scented meadow land,
Thy green velvet holmes and thy auld hoary woods so grand,
Aft drift through my dreams, all wrapt in their azure hue,
Like scenes o' the Happy Isles sparkling wi' hinny dew.
O can I e'er forget the glory o' thy dawning morn,
When the pearly tears o' night fa' in beads frae the aged thorn;
And the milky mists creep back to their bed in the mossy muirs,
And heaven's bliss comes down wi' the draps o' the crystal showers;
When Joy's trumpet sounds through the valleys o' the ringing woods,
And Echo singeth back wi' the voice o' the water-floods—
While frae bank and frae brae a clear gush o' music flies,
With the incense of earth, away to the ruby skies.
Can the warld brag o' aught like the pride o' thy gouden noon,
When the revelry of morn is lulled to a solemn croon,
And the flocks cease to bleat on the brow o' the benty knowe,
While the linns o' the Endrick shine bright in a silver lowe;
As the bride on her bridal day walks forth in her gay attire,
Her heart fu' o' joy and her e'e glancing maiden fire;
So the valley calmly basks in the beauty o' its flowery dress,
While the winds hover o'er, gently fanning its loveliness.
But dearer far to me the mirk o' thy gloamin' hour,
When the curlew's eery cry echoes far frae its fenny bower;
And the throstle's e'ening hymn, wi' the souch o' the water fa',
Now rises and now sinks, now like death calmly glides awa'—
When the flowers shut their een and the winds in the woods are still,
And the wee lammies sleep in the howe o' the dewy hill;
Then the weary soul o' man, like the bird to its cozy nest,
Floats on fancy's wings 'mang the clouds o' the purple west.
