The Book of Scottish Song/Matilda

Matilda.

[Written by Alexander Wilson of Paisley, the great American Ornithologist.]

Ye dark rugged rocks, that recline o'er the deep,
Ye breezes that sigh o'er the main,
Here shelter me under your cliffs, while I weep,
And cease, while ye hear me complain.

For distant, alas! from my dear native shores,
And far from each friend now I be,
And wide is the merciless ocean that roars
Between my Matilda and me.

How blest were the times when together we stray'd,
While Phœbe shone silent above;
Or lean'd by the border of Cartha's green side,
And talk'd the whole evening of love;

Around us all nature lay wrapt up in peace,
Nor noise could our pleasures annoy,
Save Cartha's hoarse brawling, convey'd by the breeze,
That sooth'd us to love and to joy.

If haply some youth had his passion exprest,
And prais'd the bright charms of her face,
What horrors unceasing revolv'd thro' my breast,
While sighing I stole from the place!

For where is the eye that could view her alone,
The ear that could list to her strain,
Nor wish the adorable nymph for his own,
Nor double the pangs I sustain!

Thou moon! that now brighten'st those regions above,
How oft hast thou witness'd my bliss,
While breathing my tender expressions of love,
I seal'd each kind vow with a kiss.

Ah! then how I joy'd, while I gaz'd on her charms,
What transports flew swift through my heart!
I press'd the dear beautiful maid in my arms,
Nor dream'd that we ever should part.

But now from the dear, from the tenderest maid,
By fortune unfeelingly torn;
'Midst strangers, who wonder to see me so sad,
In secret I wander forlorn;

And oft, while drear midnight assembles her shades,
And silence pours sleep from her throne,
Pale, lonely, and pensive, I steal thro' the glades,
And sigh 'midst the darkness my moan.

In vain to the town I retreat for relief;
In vain to the groves I complain;
Belles, coxcombs, and uproar, can ne'er sooth my grief,
And solitude nurses my pain.

Still absent from her whom my bosom loves best,
I languish in mis'ry and care;
Her presence could banish each woe from my breast,
But her absence, alas! is despair.

Ye dark rugged rocks, that recline o'er the deep,
Ye breezes, that sigh o'er the main,
Oh! shelter me under your cliffs, while I weep,
And cease, while ye hear me complain.

For distant, alas! from my dear native shores,
And far from each friend now I be;
And wide is the merciless ocean, that roars
Between my Matilda and me.

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