The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume Iv Part 6

THE BOWER OF THE WILD.

I form'd a green bower by the rill o' yon glen, Afar from the din and the dwellings of men; Where still I might linger in many a dream, And mingle my strains wi' the voice o' the stream.

From the cave and the cliff, where the hill foxes roam, Where the earn has his nest and the raven his home, I brought the young flower-buds ere yet they had smiled, And taught them to bloom round my bower of the wild.

But the fair maidens came, from yon vale far away, And sought my lone grotto still day after day, And soon were the stems of their fair blossoms shorn That the flowers of the bard might their ringlets adorn.

Full fair were they all, but the maiden most fair Would still have no flower till I pull'd it with care; And gentle, and simple, and modest, and mild, She stole my lone heart in the bower of the wild.

The summer is past, and the maidens are gone, And this heart, like my grotto, is wither'd and lone, And yet, with the winter, I'll cease not to mourn, Unless, with the blossoms, these fair ones return.

Oh! had they ne'er come, or had ne'er gone away, I sing in my sorrow still day after day.

The scene seems a desert--the charm is exiled, And woe to my blooms and my bower of the wild!

THE CROOK AND PLAID.

AIR--_"The Ploughman."_

I winna love the laddie that ca's the cart and pleugh, Though he should own that tender love, that's only felt by few; For he that has this bosom a' to fondest love betray'd, Is the faithfu' shepherd laddie that wears the crook and plaid; For he's aye true to his la.s.sie--he's aye true to his la.s.sie, Who wears the crook and plaid.

At morn he climbs the mountains wild his fleecy flocks to view, While o'er him sweet the laverock sings, new sprung frae 'mang the dew; His doggie frolics roun' and roun', and may not weel be stay'd, Sae blithe it is the laddie wi' that wears the crook and plaid; And he's aye true, &c.

At noon he leans him down upon the high and heathy fell, And views his flocks, beneath him a', fair feeding in the dell; And there he sings the sangs o' love, the sweetest ever made; O! how happy is the laddie that wears the crook and plaid; And he's aye true, &c.

He pu's the bells o' heather red, and the lily-flowers sae meek, Ca's the lily like my bosom, and the heath-bell like my cheek; His words are sweet and tender, as the dews frae heaven shed; And weel I love to list the lad who wears the crook and plaid; For he's aye true, &c.

When the dews begin to fauld the flowers, and the gloamin' shades draw on, When the star comes stealing through the sky, and the kye are on the loan, He whistles through the glen sae sweet, the heart is lighter made To ken the laddie hameward hies who wears the crook and plaid; For he's aye true, &c.

Beneath the spreading hawthorn gray, that's growing in the glen, He meets me in the gloamin' aye, when nane on earth can ken, To woo and vow, and there I trow, whatever may be said, He kens aye unco weel the way to row me in his plaid; For he's aye true, &c.

The youth o' mony riches may to his fair one ride, And woo across the table cauld his madam-t.i.tled bride; But I'll gang to the hawthorn gray, where cheek to cheek is laid, Oh! nae wooers like the laddie that rows me in his plaid; And he's aye true, &c.

To own the truth o' tender love what heart wad no comply, Since love gives purer happiness than aught aneath the sky?

If love be in the bosom, then the heart is ne'er afraid; And through life I'll love the laddie that wears the crook and plaid; For he's aye true, &c.

THE MINSTREL'S BOWER.

AIR--_"Bonnie Mary Hay."_

Oh, la.s.sie! if thou'lt gang to yonder glen wi' me, I'll weave the wilds amang a bonnie bower for thee; I'll weave a bonnie bower o' the birks and willows green, And to my heart thou'lt be what nae other e'er has been.

When the dew is on the flower, and the starlight on the lea, In the bonnie green-wood bower I'll wake my harp to thee; I'll wake my hill-harp's strain, and the echoes o' the dell Shall restore the tales again that its notes o' love shall tell.

Oh, la.s.sie! thou art fair as the morning's early beam, As the image of a flower reflected frae the stream; There's kindness in thy heart, and there's language in thine e'e, But ah! its looks impart nae sweet tale o' love to me!

Oh, la.s.sie! wert thou mine I wad love thee wi' such love As the lips can ne'er define, and the cold can never prove; In the bower by yonder stream our happy home should be, And our life a blissful dream, while I lived alone for thee.

When I am far away my thoughts on thee shall rest, Allured, as by a ray, frae the dwellings o' the blest; For beneath the clouds o' dew, where'er my path may be, Oh! a maiden fair as thou, I again shall never see!

WHEN THE STAR OF THE MORNING.

When the star of the morning is set, And the heavens are beauteous and blue, And the bells of the heather are wet With the drops of the deep-lying dew; 'Mong the flocks on the mountains that lie, 'Twas blithesome and blissful to be, When these all my thoughts would employ; But now I must think upon thee.

When noontide displays all its powers, And the flocks to the valley return, To lie and to feed 'mong the flowers That bloom on the banks of the burn; O sweet, sweet it was to recline 'Neath the shade of yon h.o.a.r hawthorn-tree, And think on the charge that was mine; But now I must think upon thee.

When Gloaming stole down from the rocks, With her fingers of shadowy light, And the dews of the eve in her locks, To spread down a couch for the night; 'Twas sweet through yon green birks to stray, That border the brook and the lea; But now, 'tis a wearisome way, Unless it were travell'd with thee.

All lovely and pure as thou art, And generous of thought and of will, Oh Mary! speak thou to this heart, And bid its wild beating be still; I'd give all the ewes in the fold-- I'd give all the lambs on the lea, By night or by day to behold One look of true kindness from thee.

THOUGH ALL FAIR WAS THAT BOSOM.

Though all fair was that bosom, heaving white, While hung this fond spirit o'er thee; And though that eye, with beauty's light, Still bedimm'd every eye before thee; Oh! charms there were still more divine, When woke that melting voice of thine, The charms that caught this soul of mine, And taught it to adore thee.

Then died the woes of the heart away With the thoughts of joys departed; For my soul seem'd but to live in thy lay, While it told of the faithful-hearted.

Methought how sweet it were to be Far in some wild green glen with thee; From all of life and of longing free, Save what pure love imparted.

Oh! I could stray where the drops of dew Never fell on the desert round me, And dwell where the fair flowers never grew If the hymns of thy voice still found me.

Thy smile itself could the soul invest With all that here makes mortals bless'd; While every thought thy lips express'd In deeper love still bound me.

WOULD THAT I WERE WHERE WILD WOODS WAVE.

Would that I were where wild woods wave Aboon the beds where sleep the brave; And where the streams o' Scotia lave Her hills and glens o' grandeur!

Where freedom reigns, and friendship dwells, Bright as the sun upon the fells, When autumn brings the heather-bells In all their native splendour.

The thistle wi' the hawthorn joins, The birks mix wi' the mountain pines, And heart with dauntless heart combines For ever to defend her.

Then would I were, &c.

There roam the kind, and live the leal, By lofty ha' and lowly shiel; And she for whom the heart must feel A kindness still mair tender.

Fair, where the light hill breezes blaw, The wild-flowers bloom by glen and shaw; But she is fairer than them a', Wherever she may wander.

Then would I were, &c.