He wanders dowie by himsel',
Alang the burn and through the glen;
His secret grief he winna tell—
I wish that he would smile again.
There was a time—alake the day!
Ae word o' mine could mak' him glad;
But noo, at every word I say,
I think he only looks mair sad.
The last time I gaed to the fair,
Wi' Willie o' the birken-cleugh,
Like walkin' ghost he met us there—
And sic a storm was on his broo!
I'm wae to see the chiel sae glum,
Sae dismal-like frae morn to e'en:
Than sic a cast as this had come,
I'd rather Willie ne'er ha'e seen.
I kenna what's come ower him,
He's no the lad he used to be;
I kenna what's come ower him—
The blythe blink has left his e'e.
The cauld winter’s gane.
[William Train.—Air, "John Anderson my jo."—Here first printed.]
The cauld cauld winter's gane, luve,
Sae bitter an sae snell;
And spring has come again, luve,
To deck yon leesome dell.
The buds burst frae the tree, luve:
The birds sing by the shaw;
But sad sad is my dowie heart,
For ye are far awa'!
I thocht the time wad flee, luve,
As in the days gane bye;
While I wad think on thee, luve
And a' my patience try;
But O! the weary hours, luve,
They wadna flee ava,
And they ha'e borne me nocht but dule,
Syne ye ha'e been awa'.
Waes me! they're sair to bide, luve,
The dirdums ane maun dree,
The feelings wunna hide, luve,
Wi' saut tears in the e'e:
And yet the ills o' life, luve,
Compar'd wi' joys are ama',—
Sae will it be when ye return
Nae mair to gang awa'.
Ours is the land.
[Rev. Henry S. Riddell. Music by Peter Macleod.]
Ours is the land of gallant hearts,
The land of lovely forms,
The island of the mountain harp,
The torrents, and the storms:
The land that blooms with freeman's tread,
And withers with the slaves;
Where far and deep the green-woods spread,
And wild the thistle waves.
Ere ever Ossian's lofty voice
Had told of Fingal's fame;
Ere ever from their native clime
The Roman eagles came,
Our land had given heroes birth
That durst the boldest brave,
And taught above tyrannic dust,
The thistle tufts to wave.
What need we say how Wallace fought,
And how his foemen fell,
Or how on glorious Bannockburn
The work went wild and well?
Ours is the land of gallant hearts,
The land of honour'd graves,
Whose wreath of fame shall ne'er depart,
While yet the thistle waves.
My faithful Somebody.
[Written by John Macdiarmid, editor of the Dumfries Courier. Set to music by Peter Macleod.]
When day declining gilds the west,
And weary labour welcomes rest,
How lightly bounds his beating breast
