Ye lofty banks that Evan bound!
Ye lavish woods that wave around,
And o'er the stream your shadows throw,
Which sweetly winds so far below;
What secret charm to mem'ry brings
All that on Evan's border springs!
Sweet banks! ye bloom by Mary's side:
Blest stream! she views thee haste to Clyde.
Can all the wealth of India's coast
Atone for years in absence lost?
Return, ye moments of delight;
With richer treasures bless my sight!
Swift from this desert let me part,
And fly to meet a kindred heart!
Nor more may aught my steps divide
From that dear stream which flows to Clyde.
The Lass of Pittenweem.
[Captain Charles Gray.—Air, "Johnnie's grey breeks."]
The sun looked through an evening cloud,
His golden rays glanced o'er the plain;
The lark upsprung, and caroll'd loud
Her vesper hymn of sweetest strain.
Far in the east the rainbow glow'd
In painted lines of liquid light;
Now all its vivid colours show'd—
Wax'd faint—then vanish'd from the sight!
As forth I walked, in pensive mood,
Down by yon ancient abbey wall,
Gay spring her vesture had renew'd,
And loud was heard the partridge' call;
The blackbird's song rang through the wood,
Rich in the red sun's parting gleam;
When fair before me, smiling, stood
The lovely lass of Pittenweem.
O I have wandered far and wide,
And ladies seen 'neath brighter skies,
Where trees shoot up in balmy pride,
And golden domes and spires arise;—
But here is one to my surprise,
Sweet aa a youthful poet's dream;
With love enthroned in her dark eyes—
The lovely lass of Pittenweem!
"Where dost thou wander, charming maid,
Now evening's shades begin to fall?"—
"To view fair nature's face," she said.
"For nature's charms are free to all!"—
"Speak ever thus in nature's praise;
Thou giv'st to me a darling theme,
On thee I'll lavish all my lays,
Thou lovely lass of Pittenweem!"
There is a magic charm in youth,
By which the heart of age is won;
That charm is innocence and truth,
And beauty is its summer sun!
Long may it shine on that fair face,
Where rosy health and pleasure beam;
Long lend its magic spell to grace
The lovely lass of Pittenweem.
Kate o’ Gowrie.
[This originally appeared in a small collection of poetry, published by Brash and Reid, Glasgow, about the end of the last century. The author was William Reid, of that firm.—Tune, "Loch-erroch side."]
When Katie was scarce out nineteen,
O but she had twa coal-black een;
A bonnier lass ye wadna seen,
In a' the Carse o' Gowrie.
Quite tired o' livin' a' his lane,
Pate did to her his love explain,
And swore he'd be, were she his ain,
The happiest lad in Gowrie.
Quo' she, I winna marry thee
For a' the gear that ye can gi'e:
Nor will I gang a step ajie,
For a' the gowd in Gowrie.
My father will gi'e me twa kye;
My mother's gaun some yarn to dye;
I'll get a gown just like the sky,
Gif I'll no gang to Gowrie.
Oh, my dear Katie, say na sae;
Ye little ken a heart that's wae;
Hae! there's my hand; hear me, I pray,
Sin' thou'll no gang to Gowrie.
Since first I met thee at the sheil,
My saul to thee's been true and leal;
The darkest night I fear nae deil,
Warlock, or witch, in Gowrie.
