Thou strik'st the dull peasant, he sinks in the dark,
Nor saves ev'n the wreck of a name.
Thou strik'st the young hero, a glorious mark!
He falls in the blaze of his fame.
In the field of proud honour, our swords in our hands,
Our king and our country to save;
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands,
O, who would not die with the brave!
When I rov'd.
[Words by Lord Byron. Music by J. P. Knight.]
When I rov'd a young Highlander o'er the dark heath,
And climb'd thy dark summit, O Morven, of snow!
To gaze on the torrent that slumber'd beneath,
Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below;
Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear,
And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew,
No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear—
Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas center'd in you.
I arose with the dawn, with my dog as my guide,
From mountain to mountain I bounded along;
I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide,
And heard at a distance the Highlander's song—
At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose,
No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view;
And warm to the skies my devotions arose,
For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you.
Yet the day may arrive, when the mountains once more
Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of snow;
But while these soar above me, unchang'd as before,
Will Mary be there to receive me? ah no!
Adieu! then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred—
Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu!
No home in the forest shall shelter my head,—
Ah Mary! what home could be mine without you?
The bride cam' out o' the byre.
[The author of this song, to the tune of "Woo'd and married and a'," is unknown. It appears in Herd's collection of 1776, but is of much older date.]
The bride cam' out o' the byre,
And, O, as she dighted her cheeks!
Sirs, I'm to be married the night,
And have neither blankets nor sheets;
Have neither blankets nor sheets,
Nor scarce a coverlet too,
The bride that has a' thing to borrow,
Has e'en right muckle ado.
Woo'd and married, and a',
Married, and woo'd, and a'!
And was she nae very weel off,
That was woo'd, and married and a'?
Out spake the bride's father,
As he cam' in frae the pleugh,
O, haud your tongue, my dochter,
And ye'se get gear eneugh;
The stirk stands i' th' tether,
And our bra' bawsint yade,
Will carry ye hame your corn—
What wad ye be at, ye jade?
Out spake the bride's mither,
What deil needs a' this pride?
I had nae a plack in my pouch
That night I was a bride;
My gown was linsy-woolsy,
And ne'er a sark ava;
And ye ha'e ribbons and buskins,
Mae than ane or twa.
What's the matter, quo' Willie;
Though we be scant o' claes,
We'll creep the closer thegither,
And we'll smoor a' the fleas:
Simmer is coming on,
And we'll get taits o' woo;
And we'll get a lass o' our ain,
And she'll spin claiths anew.
Out spake the bride's brither,
As he came in wi' the kye;
Poor Willie wad ne'er ha'e ta'en ye,
