The Book of Scottish Song/Farewell to Avondale

Farewell to Avondale.

[Andrew Simson.]

Farewell, ye vales where Avon flows,
Farewell, ye hills that rise around,
Farewell, abodes of sweet repose,
Where innocence and peace abound.
No more beside your streams I'll stray,
Nor pu' the wild flowers as they blaw;
No longer listen to the lay,
That's carol'd through the birken shaw.

Farewell, Pomilion's flowery braes,
Whose murmuring rills so sweetly fa',
Where aft I've spent the summer days,
When sorrow's hand was far awa'!
Thou'st listen'd to the lover's wail,
As am'rously thou glided through;
Thou'st listen'd to my artless tale,
But never heard'st a tale so true.

Farewell, thou dear ungratefii' maid,
Thou'lt mind me when I'm far awa';
And but for thee, I might have staid,
To breathe the gales that round thee blaw.
Thou knew'st my heart was a' thy ain,
And thine thou vow'dst was mine alone;
But cursed gold has made us twain,
Whom heaven had fated to be one.

Farewell, thou still beloved maid,
Love, rage, and grief, my soul disarms;
For never, never could I've staid,
To see thee in another's arms.
No more by Avon's streams we'll stray,
Nor pu' the wild flowers as they blaw;
No longer listen to the lay,
That's carol'd through the birken shaw.

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