Pale though thou art, yet best, yet best beloved,
Oh, could my warmth to life restore thee!
Yet lie all night between my briests,—
No youth lay ever there before thee:
Pale, pale, indeed, oh lovely, lovely youth,
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter,
And lie all night between my breists,
No youth shall ever lie there after!"
A."Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride!
Return, and dry thy useless sorrow!
Thy luver heids nocht of thy sighs;
He lies a corpse on the braes of Yarrow."
The Dowie Dens of Yarrow.
[Written by Henry S. Riddell. Set to Music by Peter Macleod, Edinburgh.]
Oh, sisters, there are midnight dreams
That pass not with the morning,
Then ask not why my reason swims
In a brain so wildly burning.
And ask not why I fancy how
Yon wee bird sings wi' sorrow.
That bluid lies mingled with the dew.
In the dowie dens o' Yarrow.
Thy dream's wild light was not of night,
Nor of the dulefu' morning;
Thrice on the stream was seen the gleam
That seem'd his sprite returning:
For sword-girt men came down the glen
An hour before the morrow,
And pierced the heart aye true to mine,
In the dowie dens o' Yarrow.
Oh, there are red red drops o' dew
Upon the wild flower's blossom.
But they could na cool my burning brow.
And shall not stain my bosom.
But from the clouds o' yon dark sky
A cold cold shroud I'll borrow.
And long and deep shall be my sleep
In the dowie dens o' Yarrow.
Let my form the bluid-dyed floweret press
By the heart o' him that lo'ed me.
And I'll steal frae his lips a long long kiss
In the bower where aft he wooed me.
For my arms shall fold and my tresses shield
The form of my death-cold marrow.
When the breeze shall bring the raven's wing
O'er the dowie dens o' Yarrow.
Love’s Constancy.
[Thomas Pringle.]
Oh! not when hopes are brightest.
Is all love's sweet enchantment known;
Oh! not when hearts are lightest.
Is all fond woman's fervour shown:
But when life's clouds o'ertake us,
And the cold world is clothed in gloom
When summer friends forsake us,
The rose of love is best in bloom.
Love is no wandering vapour,
That lures astray with treacherous spark;
Love is no transient taper,
That lives an hour and leaves us dark:
But, like the lamp that lightens
The Greenland hut beneath the snow,
The bosom's home it brightens,
When all beside is chill below.
Young Donald.
[Written by George Allan. Set to Music by Peter Macleod.]
An eiry night, a cheerless day,
A lanely hame at gloamin' hour,
When o'er the heart come thoughts o' wae,
Like shadows on Glenfillan's tower.
Is this the wierd that I maun drie,
And a' around sae glad and gay,
Oh hon an righ, oh hon an righ,
Young Donald frae his love's away.
The winter snaw nae mair does fa',
The rose blooms in our mountain bower,
The wild flowers on the castle wa'
