Corunna’s lone shore.
[Written by Andrew Sharpe, a shoemaker in Perth, who latterly taught drawing. He died in 1815, aged 35.—Tune, "Erin go Bragh."]
Do you weep for the woes of poor wandering Nelly?
I love you for that, but of love now no more,
All I had long ago lies entomb'd with my Billy,
Whose grave rises green on Corunna's lone shore.
Oh! they tell me my Billy looked lovely when dying,
That round him, the boldest in battle stood crying,
While from his deep wound life's red floods fast were drying,
At evening's pale close on Corunna's lone shore.
That night Billy died as I lean'd on my pillow,
I thrice was alarm'd with a knock at my door,
Thrice my name it was call'd with a voice soft and mellow,
And thrice did I dream of Corunna's lone shore.
Methought Billy stood on the beach where the billow,
Boom'd over his head, breaking loud, long and hollow;
In his hand he held waving a flag of green willow;
Save me, God! he exclaimed, on Corunna's lone shore.
And now when I mind on't, my dear Billy told me,
While tears wet his eyes, but those tears are no more,
At our parting, he never again would behold me;
'Twas strange then I thought on Corunna's lone shore.
But shall I ne'er see him when drowsy-ey'd night falls,
When thro' the dark arch Luna's tremulous light falls,
As o'er his new grave, slow the glow-worm of night crawls,
And ghosts of the slain foot Corunna's lone shore?
Yes, yes, on this spot shall these arms infold him,
For here hath he kiss'd me a thousand times o'er;
How bewildered's my brain, now methinks I behold him,
All bloody and pale on Corunna's lone shore.
Come away, my beloved, come in haste, my dear Billy,
On the winds wafting wing to thy languishing Nelly,
I've got kisses in store, I've got secrete to tell thee,
Come, ghost of my love, from Corunna's lone shore.
Oh! I'm told that my blue eyes have lost all their splendour,
That my locks, once so yellow, now wave thin and hoar,
'Tis, they tell me, because I'm so restless to wander,
And in thinking so much on Corunna's lone shore.
But, God help me, where can I go to forget him;
If to father's at home, in each corner I meet him,
The sofa, alas! where he us'd aye to seat him,
Says, Think, Nelly, think on Corunna's lone shore.
And here as I travel all tatter'd and torn,
By bramble and brier, over mountain and moor,
Not a bird bounds aloft to salute the new morn,
But warbles aloud, O Corunna's lone shore.
It is heard in the blast when the tempest is blowing,
It is heard on the white broken waterfall flowing,
It is heard in the songs of the reaping and mowing,—
Oh, my poor bleeding heart! Oh, Corunna's lone shore!