I' the hirin' right soon my dear Jamie I saw,
I saw nae ane like him, sae bonnie an' braw;
I watch'd an' baid near him, his motion to see,
In hopes aye to catch a kind glance o' his e'e.
He never wad see me in ony ae place:
At length I gaed up an' just smiled in his face,
I wonder aye yet my heart brackna in twa,—
He just said, "How are ye?" and steppit awa'.
My neeber lads strave to entice me awa';
They roos'd me, an' hecht me ilk thing that was braw;
But I hatit them a', an' I hatit the fair,
For Jamie's behaviour had wounded me sair.
His heart was sae leal, and his manners sae kind!
He's someway gane wrang, he may alter his mind;
An' sud he do sae, he's be welcome to me;
I'm sure I can never like ony but he.
Mary Dhu.
[D. M. Moir.—Adapted to the music of an ancient Gaelic air.]
Sweet, sweet is the rose-bud
Bathed in dew;
But sweeter art thou
My Mary dhu.
Oh! the skies of night,
With their eyes of light,
Are not so bright
As my Mary dhu.
Whenever thy radiant face I see,
The clouds of sorrow depart from me,
As the shadows fly
From day's bright eye,
Thou lightest life's sky,
My Mary dhu!
Sad, sad is my heart,
When I sigh, Adieu!
Or gaze on thy parting,
My Mary dhu!
Then for thee I mourn,
Till thy steps return
Bids my bosom burn,—
My Mary dhu.
I think but of thee on the broom-clad hills
I muse but on thee by the moorland rill:
In the morning light,
In the moonshine bright,
Thou art still in my sight,
My Mary dhu.
Thy voice trembles through me
Like the breeze,
That ruffles, in gladness,
The leafy trees;
'Tis a wafted tone
From heaven's high throne,
Making hearts thine own,
My Mary dhu.
Be the flowers of joy ever round thy feet
With colours glowing, and incense sweet;
And when thou must away,
May life's rose decay
In the west wind's sway—
My Mary dhu!
The Lady of my Heart.
[William Motherwell.]
The murmur of the merry brook,
As, gushingly and free,
It wimples, with its sun-bright look,
Far down yon shelter'd lea,
Humming to every drowsy flower
A low quaint lullaby,
Speaks to my spirit, at this hour,
Of love and thee.
The music of the gay green wood.
When every leaf and tree
Is coaxed by winds, of gentlest mood
To utter harmony;
And the small birds, that answer make
To the winds' fitful glee,
In me most blissful visions wake,
Of love and thee.
The rose perks up its blushing cheek,
So soon as it can see,
Along the eastern hills, one streak
Of the sun's majesty:
Laden with dewy gems, it gleams
A precious freight to me,
For each pure drop thereon me seems
A type of thee.
