The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume Iv Part 4

[5] "Poems, Songs, and Miscellaneous Pieces." Edinburgh, 1847, 12mo.

THE WILD GLEN SAE GREEN.

AIR--_"The Posy, or Roslin Castle."_

When my flocks upon the heathy hill are lying a' at rest, And the gloamin' spreads its mantle gray o'er the world's dewy breast, I'll take my plaid and hasten through yon woody dell unseen, And meet my bonnie la.s.sie in the wild glen sae green.

I'll meet her by the trysting-tree, that's stannin' a' alane, Where I hae carved her name upon yon little moss gray stane, There I will fauld her to my breast, and be mair bless'd I ween Than a' that are aneath the sky, in the wild glen sae green.

Her head reclined upon this heart, in simple bliss I'll share The pure, pure kiss o' tender love that owns nae earthly care, And spirits hovering o'er us shall bless the heartfelt scene, While I woo my bonnie la.s.sie in the wild glen sae green.

My fauldin' plaid shall s.h.i.+eld her frae the gloamin's chilly gale; The star o' eve shall mark our joy, but shall not tell our tale-- Our simple tale o' tender love--that tauld sae oft has been To my bonnie, bonnie la.s.sie, in the wild glen sae green.

It may be sweet at morning hour, or at the noon o' day, To meet wi' those that we lo'e weel in grove or garden gay; But the sweetest bliss o' mortal life is at the hour o' e'en, Wi' a bonnie, bonnie la.s.sie, in the wild glen sae green.

O! I could wander earth a' o'er, nor care for aught o' bliss, If I might share, at my return, a joy sae pure as this; And I could spurn a' earthly wealth--a palace and a queen, For my bonnie, bonnie la.s.sie, in the wild glen sae green!

SCOTIA'S THISTLE.

Scotia's thistle guards the grave, Where repose her dauntless brave; Never yet the foot of slave Has trode the wilds of Scotia.

Free from tyrant's dark control-- Free as waves of ocean roll-- Free as thoughts of minstrel's soul, Still roam the sons of Scotia.

Scotia's hills of h.o.a.ry hue, Heaven wraps in wreathes of blue, Watering with its dearest dew The heathy locks of Scotia.

Down each green-wood skirted vale, Guardian spirits, lingering, hail Many a minstrel's melting tale, As told of ancient Scotia.

When the shades of eve invest Nature's dew-bespangled breast, How supremely man is blest In the glens of Scotia!

There no dark alarms convey Aught to chase life's charms away; There they live, and live for aye, Round the homes of Scotia.

Wake, my hill harp! wildly wake!

Sound by lee and lonely lake, Never shall this heart forsake The bonnie wilds of Scotia.

Others o'er the ocean's foam Far to other lands may roam, But for ever be my home Beneath the sky of Scotia!

THE LAND OF GALLANT HEARTS.

Ours is the land of gallant hearts, The land of lovely forms, The island of the mountain-harp, The torrents and the storms; The land that blooms with freeman's tread, And withers with the slave's, Where far and deep the green woods spread, And wild the thistle waves.

Ere ever Ossian's lofty voice Had told of Fingal's fame, Ere ever from their native clime The Roman eagles came, Our land had given heroes birth, That durst the boldest brave, And taught above tyrannic dust, The thistle tufts to wave.

What need we say how Wallace fought, And how his foemen fell?

Or how on glorious Bannockburn The work went wild and well?

Ours is the land of gallant hearts, The land of honour'd graves, Whose wreath of fame shall ne'er depart While yet the thistle waves.

THE YELLOW LOCKS O' CHARLIE.

The gathering clans, 'mong Scotia's glens, Wi' martial steps are bounding, And loud and lang, the wilds amang, The war pipe's strains are sounding; The sky and stream reflect the gleam Of broadswords glancing rarely, To guard till death the hills of heath Against the foes o' Charlie.

Then let on high the banners fly, And hearts and hands rise prouder, And wake amain the warlike strain Still louder, and still louder; For we ha'e sworn, ere dawn the morn O'er Appin's mountains early, Auld Scotland's crown shall nod aboon The yellow locks o' Charlie.

While banners wave aboon the brave Our foemen vainly gather, And swear to claim, by deeds o' fame, Our hills and glens o' heather.

For seas shall swell to wild and fell, And crown green Appin fairly, Ere hearts so steel'd to foemen yield The rights o' royal Charlie.

Then wake mair loud the pibroch proud, And let the mountains h.o.a.ry Re-echo round the warlike sound That speaks of Highland glory.

For strains sublime, through future time, Shall tell the tale unsparely, How Scotland's crown was placed aboon The yellow locks o' Charlie.

WE'LL MEET YET AGAIN.

We'll meet yet again, my loved fair one, when o'er us The sky shall be bright, and the bower shall be green, And the visions of life shall be lovely before us As the suns.h.i.+ne of summer that sleeps o'er the scene.

The woodlands are sad when the green leaves are fading, And sorrow is deep when the dearest must part, But for each darker woe that our spirit is shading A joy yet more bright shall return to the heart.

We'll meet yet again, when the pain, disconcerting The peace of our minds in a moment like this, Shall melt into nought, like the tears of our parting, Or live but in mem'ry to heighten our bliss.

We have loved in the hours when a hope scarce could find us; We've loved when our hearts were the lightest of all, And the same tender tie that has bound still shall bind us, When the dark chain of fate shall have ceased to enthral.

We'll meet yet again, when the spirit of gladness Shall breathe o'er the valley, and brighten its flowers, And the lone hearts of those who have long been in sadness Shall gather delight from the transport of ours; Yes, thine are the charms, love, that never can perish, And thine is the star that my guide still shall be, Alluring the hope in this soul that shall cherish Its life's dearest treasures, to share them with thee.

OUR AIN NATIVE LAND.

Our ain native land! our ain native land!

There's a charm in the words that we a' understand, That flings o'er the bosom the power of a spell, And makes us love mair what we a' love so well.

The heart may have feelings it canna conceal, As the mind has the thoughts that nae words can reveal, But alike he the feelings and thought can command Who names but the name o' our ain native land.

Our ain native land! our ain native land!

Though bleak be its mountains and rugged its strand, The waves aye seem bless'd, dancing wild o'er the sea, When woke by the winds from the hills o' the free.

Our sky oft is dark, and our storms loud and cauld, But where are the hearts that sic worth can unfauld As those that unite, and uniting expand, When they hear but the name o' our ain native land?

Our ain native land! our ain native land!