ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. Then dry that tearfu' ee, Jean; My soul langs to be free, Jean; And angels wait on me To the Land o' the Leal. Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean, She was baith gude and fair, Jean, And we grudged her sair To the Land o' the Leal! But sorrow's self wears past, Jean, And joy's a comin' fast, Jean, The joy that 's saye to last, In the Land of the Leal. A' our friends are gane, Jean; We've lang been left alane, Jean; But we'll a' meet again In the Land o' the Leal. Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean! This world's care is vain, Jean! We'll meet, and aye be fain In the Land o' the Leal. ROBERT BLOOMFIELD. [1766-1823.] THE SOLDIER'S RETURN. How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air, And take possession of my father's chair! Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame, Appeared the rough initials of my name, Cut forty years before! The same old clock Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock I never can forget. A short breeze sprung, And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue, Caught the old dangling almanacs behind, And up they flew like banners in the wind; Then gently, singly, down, down, down they went, And told of twenty years that I had spent Far from my native land. That instant came A robin on the threshold; though so tame, 87 JANE ELLIOTT. [1781-1849.] LAMENT FOR FLODDEN. I'VE heard them lilting at our ewe-milking, Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day; But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning, Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae; Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away. In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray; At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play; But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie The Flowers of the Forest are weded away. Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay. We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewemilking; Women and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loan ing The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. ROBERT TANNAHILL. [1774-1810.] THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN. THE midges dance aboon the burn; The paitricks down the rushy holm Beneath the golden gloamin' sky The mavis mends her lay; The red breast pours his sweetest strains, Gaes jinking through the thorn. The roses fauld their silken leaves, Spread fragrance through the dell. The simple joys that Nature yields THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER. LET us go, lassie, go, To the braes o' Balquhither, Lightly bounding together, By the clear siller fountain, Wi' the flowers of the mountain; To the bower o' my dearie. When the rude wintry win' Idly raves round our dwelling, The sun is not set, but is risen on high, Nor long in corruption his body shall lie; Then let not the tide of thy griefs overflow, Nor the music of heaven be discord below; Rather loud be the song, and triumphant the chord, Let us joy for the dead who have died in the Lord. Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament, Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent; But give to the living thy passion of tears, Who walk in this valley of sadness and fears; Who are pressed by the combat, in darkness are lost, By the tempest are beat, on the billows are tossed: O, weep not for those who shall sorrow Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, This glorious canopy of light and blue? Yet, 'neath a curtain of translucent dew, Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came, And lo! creation widened in man's view. Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed Within thy beams, C sun! or who could find, Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind? Why do we, then, shun death with anxious strife? If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life? JOHN LEYDEN. [1775-1811.] ODE TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. WRITTEN IN CHERICAL, MALABAR. SLAVE of the dark and dirty mine! What vanity has brought thee here? How can I love to see thee shine So bright, whom I have bought so dear? The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear, For twilight converse, arm in arm; The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear Whom mirth and music wont to charm. By Chérical's dark wandering streams, Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams Of Teviot loved while still a child, Of castled rocks stupendous piled By Esk or Eden's classic wave, Where loves of youth and friendship siniled, Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave! Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade! The perished bliss of youth's first prime, That once so bright on fancy played, Revives no more in after time. Far from my sacred natal climè, I haste to an untimely grave; The daring thoughts that soared sublime Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. Slave of the mine! thy yellow light Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear. A gentle vision comes by night My lonely widowed heart to cheer; Her eyes are dim with many a tear, That once were guiding stars to mine: Her fond heart throbs with many a fear! I cannot bear to see thee shine. For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, I left a heart that loved me true! |