The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume Iv Part 33

MARY STEEL.

I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel, When the lark begins to sing, And a thousan', thousan' joyfu' hearts Are welcoming the spring: When the merle and the blackbird build their nest In the bushy forest tree, And a' things under the sky seem blest, My thoughts shall be o' thee.

I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel, When the simmer spreads her flowers, And the lily blooms and the ivy twines In beauty round the bowers; When the cushat coos in the leafy wood, And the lambs sport o'er the lea, And every heart 's in its happiest mood, My thoughts shall be o' thee.

I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel, When har'st blithe days begin, And shearers ply, in the yellow ripe field, The foremost rig to win; When the shepherd brings his ewes to the fauld, Where light-hair'd la.s.ses be, And mony a tale o' love is tauld, My thoughts shall be o' thee.

I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel, When the winter winds rave high, And the tempest wild is pourin' doun Frae the dark and troubled sky: When a hopeless wail is heard on land, And shrieks frae the roaring sea, And the wreck o' nature seems at hand, My thoughts shall be o' thee!

OH, HAST THOU FORGOTTEN?

Oh, hast thou forgotten the birk tree's shade, And this warm, true heart o' mine, Mary?

Oh, hast thou forgotten the promise thou made, When so fondly 't was pressed to thine, Mary?

Oh, hast thou forgotten, what I ne'er can forget, The hours we have spent together?

Those hours which, like stars in my memory, yet s.h.i.+ne on as brightly as ever!

Oh, hast thou forgotten that moment of bliss, So fraught with the heart's full feeling?

As we clung to each other in the last embrace, The soul of love revealing!

Oh, hast thou forgotten that sacred spot, Where the farewell word was spoken?

Is the sigh, and the tear, and all forgot, The vow and the promise broken?

Then for ever farewell, thou false fair one; Though other arms caress thee, Though a fairer youth thy heart should gain, And a smoother tongue should bless thee:--

Yet never again on thy warm young cheek Will breathe a soul more warm than mine, And never again will a lover speak Of love more pure to thine.

THE MAID OF MY HEART.

AIR--_"The Last Rose of Summer."_

When the maid of my heart, with the dark rolling eye, The only beloved of my bosom is nigh, I ask not of Heaven one bliss to impart, Save that which I feel with the maid of my heart.

When around and above us there 's nought to be seen, But the moon on the sky and the flower on the green, And all is at rest in the glen and the hill, Save the soul-stirring song of the breeze and the rill.

Then the maid of my heart to my bosom is press'd, Then all I hold dear in this world is possess'd; Then I ask not of Heaven one bliss to impart, Save that which I feel with the maid of my heart.

SONG OF THE EMIGRANT.

Oh! the land of hills is the land for me, Where the maiden's step is light and free; Where the shepherd's pipe, and the hunter's horn, Awake the joys of the rosy morn.

There 's a voice in the wind, when it comes from the lake, That tells how the foamy billows break; There 's a voice in the wind, when it comes from the wood, That tells of dreary solitude.

But, oh! when it comes from the mountain fells, Where the Spirit of Song and Freedom dwells, Where in youth's warm day I woke that strain I ne'er in this world can wake again.

The warm blood leaps in its wonted course, And fresh tears gush from their briny source, As if I had hail'd in the pa.s.sing wind The all I have loved and left behind.

THIS La.s.sIE O' MINE.[35]

TUNE--_"Wattie's Ramble."_

O, saw ye this sweet bonnie la.s.sie o' mine?

Or saw ye the smile on her cheek sae divine?

Or saw ye the kind love that speaks in her e'e?

Sure naebody e'er was sae happy as me.

It 's no that she dances sae light on the green, It 's no the simplicity marked in her mien-- But, O! it 's the kind love that speaks in her e'e That keeps me aye happy as happy can be.

To meet her alane 'mang the green leafy trees, When naebody kens, an' when naebody sees; To breathe out the soul in a saft melting kiss-- On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this.

I have felt every bliss which the soul can enjoy, When friends circle round, and nought to annoy; I have felt every joy which illumines the breast When the full flowing bowl is most warmly caress'd.

But, O! there 's a sweet and a heavenly charm In life's early day, when the bosom is warm, When soul meets with soul in a saft melting kiss, On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this.

FOOTNOTES:

[35] This song was formerly introduced in this work (vol. ii. p. 70) as the composition of the Ettrick Shepherd. The error is not ours; we found the song in the latest or posthumous edition of the Shepherd's songs, p.

201 (Blackie, Glasgow), and we had no reason to suspect the authenticity. We have since ascertained that a copy of the song, having been handed to the Shepherd by the late Mr Peter Roger, of Peebles, Hogg, with the view of directing attention to the real author, introduced it shortly after in his _Noctes Bengerianae_, in the "Edinburgh Literary Journal" (vol. i. p. 258). Being included in this periodical paper, the editor of his posthumous works had a.s.sumed that the song was the Shepherd's own composition. So much for uncertainty as to the authors.h.i.+p of our best songs!

JAMES TELFER.

James Telfer, an ingenious prose writer and respectable poet, was born about the commencement of the century, near the source of the river Jed, in the parish of Southdean, and county of Roxburgh. Pa.s.sionate in his admiration of Hogg's "Queen's Wake," he early essayed imitations of some of the more remarkable portions of that poem. In 1824 he published at Jedburgh a volume of "Border Ballads and Miscellaneous Poems," which he inscribed to the Bard of Ettrick. "Barbara Gray," an interesting prose tale, appeared from his pen in 1835, printed at Newcastle. A collected edition of his best productions in prose and verse was published at London in 1852, with the t.i.tle of "Tales and Sketches." He has long been a contributor to the provincial journals.

Some of Mr Telfer's ballads are respectable specimens of this cla.s.s of compositions; and his tales in prose are written with much vigour, the narrative of "Barbara Gray" being especially interesting. For many years he has taught an adventure school at Saughtree, Liddisdale; and with emoluments not much beyond twenty pounds a-year, he has contrived to support a family. He has long maintained a literary correspondence with his ingenious friend, Mr Robert White of Newcastle; and his letters, some of which we have seen, abound with curious and interesting speculations.