But the snow was so deep, That his heart it grew weary, And he sunk down to sleep, In the moorland so dreary. Soft was the bed She had made for her lover, White were the sheets And embroider'd the cover; But his sheets are more white, And his canopy grander, And sounder he sleeps Where the hill foxes wander. Alas, pretty maiden, What sorrows attend you! I see you sit shivering, With lights at your window; But long may you wait Ere your arms shall enclose him, For still, still he lies, With a wreath on his bosom! How painful the task The sad tidings to tell you! An orphan you were Ere this misery befell you; And far in yon wild, Where the dead-tapers hover, So cold, cold and wan Lies the corpse of your lover! O, WHAT GART ME GREET? WAS written in 1810, on an affecting incident related to me by a lady. It was published in THE SPY that year, and has never been set to music, but I have heard it chanted to "Bonny Dundee," an air of more general utility than any in Scotland. O WHAT gart me greet when I partit wi' Willie, While at his gude fortune ilk ane was sae fain? He gae me his hand as we gae'd to the river, Right sair was my heart frae my Willie to sever, It wasna the kiss that he gae me at parting, As slow they were shoving the boat frae the land. The tear that I saw ower his bonny cheek straying, The bairn's unco wae to be taen frae its mother, The wee bird is wae when bereaved o' its young, But oh, to be reft of a dear only brother, It canna be spoken—it canna be sung! I dream'd a' the night that my Willie was wi' me, I hae naebody now to look kind an' caress me, An' wandering weary this wilderness dreary, I'll lang for the day that shall meet us again! R A NATIONAL SONG OF TRIUMPH THE following song was written for, and sung at, a large social meeting of friends, who met by appointment at Young's tavern, to celebrate the entry of the Allies into Paris in 1814. Now, Britain, let thy cliffs o' snaw An' ne'er shall ee thy shores again Well may thy lion shake his mane, And turn his grey beard to the sun. Lang hae I bragg'd o' thine an' thee, Even when thy back was at the wa', As lang as I hae breath to draw. |