Blackford Hill.
The man wha lues fair nature's charms,
Let him gae to Blackford hill;
And wander there amang the craigs,
Or down aside the rill;
That murmuring through the peblis plays,
And banks whar daisies spring;
While, frae ilk bush and tree, the birds
In sweetest concert sing.
The lintie the sharp treble sound;
The lav'rock tenor plays;
The blackbird and the mavis join
To form a solemn base;
Sweet echo the loud air repeats,
Till a' the valley rings:
While odorous scents the westlin' wind
Frae thousand wild flowers brings.
The hermitage aside the burn
In shady covert lies,
Frae pride and folly's noisy rounds
Fit refuge for the wise;
Wha there may study as they list,
And pleasures taste at will,
Yet never leave the varied bounds
Of bonnie Blackford hill.
The bloom hath fled.
[William Motherwell.]
The bloom hath fled thy cheek, Mary,
As spring's rath blossoms die,
And sadness hath o'ershadowed now
Thy once bright eye;
But, look on me, the prints of grief
Still deeper lie.
Farewell!
Thy lips are pale and mute, Mary,
Thy step is sad and slow,
The morn of gladness hath gone by
Thou erst did know;
I, too, am changed like thee, and weep
For very woe.
Farewell!
It seems as 'twere but yesterday
We were the happiest twain,
When murmured sighs and joyous tears,
Dropping like rain,
Discoursed my love, and told how loved
I was again.
Farewell!
'Twas not in cold and measured phrase
We gave our passion name;
Scorning such tedious eloquence,
Our heart's fond flame
And long imprisoned feelings fast
In deep sobs came.
Farewell!
Would that our love had been the love
That merest worldlings know,
When passion's draught to our doomed lips
Turns utter woe,
And our poor dream of happiness
Vanishes so!
Farewell!
But in the wreck of all our hopes,
There's yet some touch of bliss,
Since fate robs not our wretchedness
Of this last kiss:
Despair, and love, and madness, meet
In this, in this.
Farewell!
Push about the Glass.
Comrades, push about the glass,
An' mak' the cheerfu' ingle glow;
Time, a rogue that ne'er knew grace,
Will urge alike his steady pace,
Whether we are blest or no.
Fill thritty bouts for ane o' his,
Toom ninety glasses for his three;
For a' their saws and prattles, this
The best and beaten road to bliss
Wiser men have fund than we.
If you can be blest the day,
Ne'er defer it till the morn:
Peril still attends delay,
As all fools will find, whan they
Have their happie hour forborne.
