I sought the long embattled line,
Eager in glory's path to shine—
But dool cam' owre the hapless time
I yielded to the fairlie, O.
But sin' the dearest bliss o' man,
That wyles our way sae drearie, O,
The brawest lass in a' the lan',
Smiles on me kind an' cheerie,;
Contented wi' my peacefu' lot,
My sorrows now are a' forgot;
An' monie mae I wad bear for't,
If blest wi' thee, my dearie, O!
O woman, man's delight an' care!
The sweetest pride o' nature, O,
Reposes on her bosom fair,
Sits smilin' on ilk feature, O!
Man may be bold, he may be strong,
May figure through life's chequer'd throng,
But still the bard, in deathless song,
The chief o' warks will rate her, O!
Farewell to Avondale.
[Andrew Simson.]
Farewell, ye vales where Avon flows,
Farewell, ye hills that rise around,
Farewell, abodes of sweet repose,
Where innocence and peace abound.
No more beside your streams I'll stray,
Nor pu' the wild flowers as they blaw;
No longer listen to the lay,
That's carol'd through the birken shaw.
Farewell, Pomilion's flowery braes,
Whose murmuring rills so sweetly fa',
Where aft I've spent the summer days,
When sorrow's hand was far awa'!
Thou'st listen'd to the lover's wail,
As am'rously thou glided through;
Thou'st listen'd to my artless tale,
But never heard'st a tale so true.
Farewell, thou dear ungratefii' maid,
Thou'lt mind me when I'm far awa';
And but for thee, I might have staid,
To breathe the gales that round thee blaw.
Thou knew'st my heart was a' thy ain,
And thine thou vow'dst was mine alone;
But cursed gold has made us twain,
Whom heaven had fated to be one.
Farewell, thou still beloved maid,
Love, rage, and grief, my soul disarms;
For never, never could I've staid,
To see thee in another's arms.
No more by Avon's streams we'll stray,
Nor pu' the wild flowers as they blaw;
No longer listen to the lay,
That's carol'd through the birken shaw.
Hush, ye rude breezes.
[Andrew Simson.—Tune, "Bonnie Dundee."]
Hush, hush, ye rude breezes, my Harry is comin',
Nor aim at my lover the blasts that ye blaw,
For he'd come to my arms, though the burn it was foamin',
In winter or summer, thro' sleet or thro' snaw.
He hears not, nor fears not your blustering thunder,
But thinks his dear lassie how soon he shall see;
And oh! may rude fate never cast us asunder,
Nor blast all the hopes of my Harry and me.
My Harry is blythsome, my Harry is cheerie,
Wi' him ilk thing round me looks bonnie and braw;
But ilk thing aroun' me looks darksome and drearie,
If e'er he gaes frae me, or turns to gae 'wa.
Lang ha'e I lo'ed him, an' never, O never,
Can I think my dear laddie for ever to lea';
But if 'tis our fate that death should us sever,
One grave shall receive both my Harry and me.
O'er the mist-shrouded.
[J. Burtt.—Tune, "Banks of the Devon."]
O'er the mist-shrouded clifts of the grey mountain straying,
Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave:
What woes wring my heart, while intently surveying
The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave.
