The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume V Part 33

When e'enin's gowden curtains hing O'er moor and mountain gray, Methinks I hear the blue-bells ring A dirge to deein' day; But when the licht o' mornin' wakes The young dew-drooket flowers, I hear amid their merry peals, The mirth o' bridal hours!

The Scotch blue-bell, &c.

How oft wi' rapture hae I stray'd, The mountain's heather crest, There aft wi' thee hae I array'd My Mary's maiden breast; Oft tremblin' mark'd amang thy bells, Her bosom fa' and rise, Like snawy cloud that sinks and swells, 'Neath summer's deep blue skies.

The Scotch blue-bell, &c.

Oh! weel ye guess when morning daws, I seek the blue-bell grot; An' weel ye guess, when e'enin' fa's Sae sweet, I leave it not; An' when upon my tremblin' breast, Reclines my maiden fair, Thou know'st full well that I am blest, And free frae ilka care.

The Scotch blue-bell, the Scotch blue-bell, The dear blue-bell for me!

Oh! I wadna gie the Scotch blue-bell, For a' the flowers I see.

THE ROCKIN'.

The ingle cheek is bleezin' bricht, The croozie sheds a cheerfu' licht, An' happy hearts are here the nicht, To haud a rantin' rockin'!

There 's laughin' Lizzie, free o' care; There 's Mary, wi' the modest air; An' Kitty, wi' the gowden hair, Will a' be at the rockin'.

There 's Bessie, wi' her spinnin' wheel; There 's Jeanie Deans, wha sings sae weel; An' Meg, sae daft about a reel, Will a' be at the rockin'.

The ploughman, brave as Wallace wicht; The weaver, wi' his wit sae bricht; The vulcan, wi' his arm o' micht, Will a' be at the rockin'.

The shepherd, wi' his eagle e'e, Kindly heart an' rattlin' glee; The wonder-workin' dominie, Will a' be at the rockin'.

The miller, wi' his mealy mou', Wha kens sae weel the way to woo-- His faither's pipes frae Waterloo He 'll bring to cheer our rockin'.

The souter, wi' his bristly chin, Frae whilk the la.s.ses screechin' rin; The curly-headed whupper-in, Will a' be at the rockin'.

There 's merry jokes to cheer the auld, There 's love an' joy to warm the cauld, There 's sangs o' weir to fire the bauld; Sae prove our merry rockin'.

The tales they tell, the sangs they sing, Will gar the auld clay biggin' ring, And some will dance the Highland fling, Right blithely at the rockin'.

Wi' wit, an' love, an' fun, an' fire, Fond friends.h.i.+p will each soul inspire, An' mirth will get her heart's desire O' rantin', at the rockin'.

When sair foredung wi' crabbit care, When days come dark whilk promised fair, To cheer the gloom, just come an' share The pleasures o' our rockin'.

THE WIDOW.

Oh, there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain, Oh, there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain; Though the heart o' this warld 's as hard as a stane, Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain.

Though totterin' noo, like her auld crazy biel, Her step ance the lichtest on hairst-rig or reel; Though sighs tak' the place o' the heart-cheerin' strain, Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

Though humble her biggin', and scanty her store, The beggar ne'er yet went unserved frae her door; Though she aft lifts the lid o' her girnel in vain, Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

Though thin, thin her locks, noo like hill-drifted snaw, Ance sae glossy and black, like the wing o' the craw; Though grief frae her mild cheek the red rose has ta'en, Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

The sang o' the lark finds the Widow asteer, The birr o' her wheel starts the nicht's dreamy ear; The tears o'er the tow-tap will whiles fa' like rain, Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

Ye may hear in her speech, ye may see in her claes, That auld Widow Miller has seen better days, Ere her auld Robin dee'd, sae fond an' sae fain'-- Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

Oh, sad was the hour when the brave Forty-twa, Wi' their wild-sounding pipes, march'd her callant awa'; Though she schules, feeds, an' cleeds his wee orphan wean, Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

Ye wild wintry winds, ye blaw surly and sair, On the heart that is sad, on the wa's that are bare; When care counts the links o' life's heavy chain, The poor heart is hopeless that winna complain.

The Sabbath-day comes, and the Widow is seen, I' the aisle o' the auld kirk, baith tidy and clean; Though she aft sits for hours on the mossy grave-stane, Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

An' then when she turns frae the grave's lanely sod, To breathe out her soul in the ear of her G.o.d, What she utters to Him is no kent to ane, But there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!

Ye wealthy an' wise in this fair world o' ours, When your fields wave wi' gowd, your gardens wi' flowers; When ye bind up the sheaves, leave out a few grains, To the heart-broken Widow wha never complains.

THE HIGHLAND PLAID.

What though ye hae nor kith nor kin', An' few to tak' your part, love; A happy hame ye'll ever fin'

Within my glowing heart, love.

So! while I breathe the breath o' life, Misfortune ne'er shall steer ye; My Highland Plaid is warm an' wide-- Creep closer, my wee dearie!

The thunder loud, the burstin' cloud, May speak o' ghaists an' witches, An' s.p.u.n.kie lichts may lead puir wichts Through bogs an' droonin' ditches; There's no ae imp in a' the host This nicht will daur come near ye; My Highland Plaid is warm an' wide-- Creep closer, my wee dearie!

Why do you heave sic heavy sighs, Why do ye sab sae sair, love?

Altho' beneath my rustic plaid An earl's star I wear love, I woo'd ye as a shepherd youth, And as a queen revere thee; My Highland plaid is warm an' wide-- Creep closer, my wee deerie!

THE FLOWER O' GLENCOE.

Oh! dear to my heart are my heather-clad mountains, An' the echoes that burst from their caverns below, The wild woods that darken the face of their fountains-- The haunts of the wild deer an' fleet-footed roe; But dearer to me is the bower o' green bushes That flowers the green bank where the Tay gladly gushes, For there, all in tears, an' deep crimson'd wi' blushes, I won the young heart o' the Flower o' Glencoe.

Contented I lived in my canty auld biggin', 'Till Britain grew wud wi' the threats o' a foe; Then I drew my claymore frae the heather-clad riggin', My forefathers wielded some cent'ries ago.

An' though Mary kent weel that my heart was nae ranger, Yet the thoughts o' my wa'-gaun, the dread an' the danger O' famine and death in the land o' the stranger, Drave the bloom frae the cheek o' the Flower o' Glencoe.

But success crown'd our toils--ye hae a' heard the story, How we beat the proud French, an' their eagles laid low-- I've walth o' war's wounds, an' a share o' its glory, An' the love o' auld Scotland wherever I go.

Come, now fill the wine cup! let love tell the measure; Toast the maid of your heart, an' I'll pledge you with pleasure; Then a b.u.mper I claim to my heart's dearest treasure-- The fair-bosom'd, warm-hearted Flower o' Glencoe.

MRS JANE C. SIMPSON.