I thought, on the shore I sat wearily mourning,
The sun had sunk doun o'er the sea;
I saw Jamie's ship frae the Indies returning,
Wi' flags waving welcome to me.
I heard his clear voice in the sang they were singing,—
It cam' through my heart wi' a stound;
The tune o' that sang in my ear is yet ringing;
Sae pleasant, sae sweet, was its sound.
The sma' boat was lower'd, and they soon cam' to landing;—
How happy we met on the shore!
He gaz'd wi' that look that was aye sae commanding,
And smiled as he aye smiled before.
When press'd to his bosom, how fervent he bless'd me!
An' spak o' the joys we wad share;
He said, o'er an' o'er, as he fondly caress'd me,
"My Jeannie! we'll never part mair."
How fast fell my tears on his fast-beating bosom!
I couldna speak to him ava,
While, sabbing wi' joy that I'd never mair lose him,
I waken'd—and he was awa'!
I mark’d a gem.
[Written by Tannahill. "Tannahill and Smith," says the poet's latest biographer, Mr. P. A. Ramsay, "once went on a fishing excursion with some acquaintances. The two friends being but tyros soon grew weary of lashing the water to no purpose, and separated for a little, each to amuse himself in his own fashion. When Smith rejoined the poet, he was shown this song written with a pencil. Tannahill had been occupied observing a blade of grass bending under the weight of a dew-drop, and this trifling object had suggested to him the simile embodied in the song."]
I mark'd a gem of pearly dew,
While wand'ring near yon misty mountain,
Which bore the tender flow'r so low,
It dropp'd it off into the fountain.
So thou hast wrung this gentle heart,
Which in its core was proud to wear thee,
Till drooping sick heneath thy art,
It sighing found it could not bear thee.
Adieu, thou faithless fair! unkind!
Thy falsehood dooms that we must sever;
Thy vows were as the passing wind,
That fans the flow'r, then dies for ever.
And think not that this gentle heart,
Though in its core 'twas proud to wear thee,
Shall longer droop beneath thy art;—
No, cruel fair, it cannot bear thee.
Highland Harry.
[Burns.—Tune, "Highlander's Lament."—The chorus is from an old song, the hero of which, according to Mr. Peter Buchan, was a Harry Lumsdale, who made love to a daughter of the laird of Knockhaspie. Burns, however, makes his song a Jacobitical one.]
My Harry was a gallant gay;
Fu' stately strode he on the plain;
But now he's banish'd far away,
I'll never see him back again.
Oh, for him back again!
Oh, for him back again!
I wad gi'e a' Knockhaspie's land
For Highland Harry back again.
When a' the lave gae to their bed,
I wander dowie up the glen;
I sit me down, and greet my fill,
And aye I wish him back again.
O, were some villains hangit hie,
And ilka body had their ain,
Then I micht see the joyfu' sicht,
My Highland Harry back again.
Sad was the day, and sad the hour,
He left me in his native plain,
And rush'd his much-wrong'd Prince to join;
But, oh! he'll ne'er come back again!
Strong was my Harry's arm, in war,
Unmatch'd in a' Culloden's plain;
But vengeance marks him for her ain—
I'll never see him back again.
