BIRD of the wilderness,
Blythesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Bless'd is thy dwelling-place:
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!
Wild is thy lay and loud,
Far in the downy cloud ;
Love gives it energy, love gave
Where on the dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
O'er fell and mountain sheen,
O'er moor and mountain green,
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day;
Over the cloudlet dim,
Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, hie, hie thee away!
Then when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms,
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be;
Bird of the wilderness,
Bless'd is thy dwelling-place:
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!
WILLIAM CREECH, born 1745, died 1815.
WE'LL hap and row, we'll hap and row,
We'll hap and row the feetie o't;
It is a wee bit weary thing:
I downa bide the greetie o't.
And we pat on the wee bit pan,
To boil the lick o' meatie o't;
A cinder fell and spoil'd the plan,
And burnt a' the feetie o't.
Fu' sair it grat, the puir wee brat,
And aye it kick'd the feetie o't,
Till, puir wee elf, it tired itself,
And then began the sleepie o't.
The skirling brat nae parritch gat,
When it gaed to the sleepie o't;
It's waesome true, instead o' 'ts mou',
They're round about the feetie o't.
MACGREGOR'S GATHERING.
SIR WALTER SCOTT. Written for "Albyn's Anthology," 1816.
Air-" Thain a' Grigalach."
THE moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the brae,
And the clan has a name that is nameless by day :
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach! &c.
Our signal for fight, which from monarchs we drew,
Must be heard but by night in our vengeful halloo :
Then halloo, halloo, halloo, Grigalach !
Glenorchy's proud mountains, Coalchuirn and her towers,
Glenstrae, and Glenlyon, no longer are ours:
We're landless, landless, landless, Grigalach!
But, doom'd and devoted by vassal and lord,
Macgregor has still both his heart and his sword:
Then courage, courage, courage, Grigalach !
If they rob us of name, and pursue us with beagles,
Give their roof to the flames and their flesh to the eagles :
Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Grigalach!
While there's leaves on the forest, or foam on the river,
Macgregor, despite them, shall flourish for ever:
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!
Through the depths of Loch Katrine the steed shall career;
O'er the peak of Ben Lomond the galley shall steer;
And the rocks of Craig Royston like icicles melt
Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our vengeance unfelt:
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!
DONALD CAIRD.
SIR WALTER SCOTT. From "Albyn's Anthology."
Air-"Malcolm Caird's come again."
DONALD CAIRD's come again!
Donald Caird's come again!
Tell the news in brugh and glen,
Donald Caird's come again!
Donald Caird can lilt and sing,
Blythely dance the Highland fling;
Drink till the gudeman be blind,
Fleech till the gudewife be kind;
Hoop a leglan, clout a pan,
Or crack a pow wi' ony man:
Tell the news in brugh and glen,
Donald Caird's come again!
Donald Caird can wire a maukin,
Kens the wiles o' dun-deer staukin;
Leisters kipper, makes a shift
To shoot a muir-fowl i' the drift;
Water-bailiffs, rangers, keepers,
He can wauk when they are sleepers;
Not for bountith or reward
Daur they mell wi' Donald Caird.
Donald Caird can drink a gill
Fast as hostler-wife can fill;
Ilka ane that sells gude liquor
Kens how Donald bends a bicker.
When he's fou he's stout and saucy,
Keeps the cantle o' the causey ;
Highland chief and Lawland laird
Maun gi'e way to Donald Caird.
Steek the awmrie, lock the kist,
Else some gear will sune be mist ;
Donald Caird finds orra things
Where Allan Gregor fand the tings:
Dunts o' kebbuck, taits o' woo,
Whiles a hen and whiles a soo;
Webs or duds frae hedge or yard:
Ware the wuddie, Donald Caird!
On Donald Caird the doom was stern,
Craig to tether, legs to airn;
But Donald Caird, wi' muckle study,
Caught the gift to cheat the wuddie.
Rings o' airn and bolts o' steel
Fell like ice frae hand and heel:
Watch the sheep in fauld and glen,
Donald Caird's come again!
SIR WALTER SCOTT. From "Rokeby."
ALLEN-A-DALE has no fagot for burning,
Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning,
Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning,
Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning:
Come read me my riddle, come hearken my tale,
And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale.
The baron of Ravensworth prances in pride,
And he views his domains upon Arkindale side,
The mere for his net and the lamb for his game,
The chase for the wild and the park for the tame;
Yet the fish of the lake and the deer of the vale
Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-Dale.
Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight,
Though his spur be as sharp and his blade be as bright; Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord,
Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word;
And the best of our nobles his bonnet will veil,
Who at Rerecross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale.
Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come,
The mother she ask'd of his household and home:
"Though the castle of Richmond stands fair on the hill,
My hall," quoth bold Allen, "shews gallanter still;
'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale,
And with all its bright spangles !” said Allen-a-Dale.
The father was steel, and the mother was stone,
They lifted the latch and bade him be gone;
But loud on the morrow their wail and their cry—
He had laugh'd on the lass with his bonnie black eye;
And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale,
And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale.
|