O! Head Ye Yon Pibroch Sound Sad in The Gale By T.Campbell

 

O! Head Ye Yon Pibroch Sound Sad in The Gale

O, heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?
'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear;
And her sire and her people are called to her bier.

Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud;
Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud;
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;
They marched all in silence, — they looked on the ground.

In silence they reached, over mountain and moor,
To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar;
"Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn
Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern.

And tell me, I charge ye, ye clan of my spouse,
Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?
So spake the rude chieftain - no answer is made.
But each mantle, unfolding, a dagger displayed.

I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud.
Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud;
And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem,
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!

O, pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween,
When the shroud was unclosed and no lady was seen;
When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn,
'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn,

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,
I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief;
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem;
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert revealed where his lady was found;
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne;
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn.

P

By T.Campbell

When Absent From the Nymph I Love By Allan Ramsay.

 

When Absent From the Nymph I Love

When absent from the nymph I love,

I’d fain shake off the chains I wear;

But whilst I strive these to remove,

More fetters I’m obliged to bear:

My captived fancy, day and nigh,

Fairer and fairer represents

Belinda, formed for delight,

But cruel cause of my complaints.

All day I wander through the groves,

And, nighing, hear from every tree,

The happy birds, chirping their loves,

Happy compared with lonely me.

When gentle sleep, with balmy wings,

to rest fans every weary wight,

A thousand fears my fancy brings,

That keeps me watching all the night.

Sleep flies, while like the goddess fair,

And all the graces in her train,

With melting smiles and killing air,

Appears the cause of all my pain.

Awhile, my mind delighted, flies

O’er all her sweets, with thrilling joy.

Whilst want of work makes doubts arise,

That all my trembling hopes destroy.

Thus while my thoughts are fixed on her.

I’m all o’er transports and desire,

My pulse beats high, my cheeks appear

All roses, and mine eyes all fire.

When to myself I turn to view,

My veins grow chill, my cheeks look was;

Thus whilst my fears my pains renew,

I scarcely look or move a man.

By Allan Ramsay.

The Rosy Brier. Air-”I wish my love was in a myre.” By Burns

 

The Rosy Brier.

Air-”I wish my love was in a myre.”

O bonnie was yon rosy brier, 
That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man; 
And bonnie she, and ah, how dear! 
It shaded frae the e'enin sun.

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew 
How pure, amang the leaves sae green; 
But purer was the lover's vow, 
They witnessed in their shade yestreen . 

All in its rude and prickly bower,
That crimson rose how sweet and fair; 
But love is far a sweeter flower,
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 

The pathless, wild and wimpling burn, 
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine; 
And I the warld nor wish nor scorn, 
Its joys and griefs alike resign.
By Burns

The Flag Waved O’er The Castle Wa’. Air- “The Birks o’ Invermay.” By Hogg.

 

The Flag Waved O’er The Castle Wa’.

Air- “The Birks o’ Invermay.”

The flag waved e’er the castle wa’,

The hind cam’ lilting o’er the lea,

Loud joy ran through the lighted ha’,

An’ ilka ane was blithe but me;

For, ah! My heart had tint its glee,

Although the wars had worn away;

The breast that used my stay to be,

Was lyin’ cauld in foreign clay.

I looked east, I looket west,

I saw the darksomr coming even;

The wild bird had its cozy nest,

The kid was to the hamlet driven,

But house, nor hame, aneath the heaven,

Except the skeugh of greenwood tree;

O, that was a’ the comfort given

To my three little bairns an’ me.

I had a pray’r I could na say!

I had a vow I dougtna breathe-

Foe aye they led my words astray,

An aye they wer’ connectet baith

Wi’ ane wha now was cauld in death!

I looket round wi’ wat’ry e’e-

Hope was na there-but I was laith

To see my little babies dee.

Just as the breeze the aspen stirred,

And bore aslant the falling dew,

I thought I heard a bonny bird

Singing amid the air so blue;

It was a lay that did renew

The hope deep sunk in misery,

It was of ane my woes that knew,

And some kind hearts that cared for me.

O, sweet as breaks the rising day,

Or sunbeams through the wavy rain,

Fell on my soul the cheering lay-

Was it an angel poured the strain?

Wha kens a yearning mother’s pain,

Bent o’er the child upon her knee!

O, mine will bless, and bless again,

The generous heart that cared for me.

A cot was reared by Mercy’s hand

Amid the Grampian wilderness-

It rose, as if by magic wand,

A shelter to forlorn Distress!

An’ weel I ken that Heaven will bless

The hearts that issued the decree-

The window and the fatherless

Can never pray and slighted be.

By Hogg.

This Is No My Ain House. By Ramsay.

 

This Is No My Ain House

This is no mine ain house,
I ken by the rigging o't;
Since with my love I 've changed vows,
I dinna like the bigging o't:
For now that I 'm young Robie's bride,
And mistress of his fire-side,
Mine ain house I 'll like to guide,
And please me with the trigging o't.

Then farewell to my father's house,
I gang where love invites me;
The strictest duty this allows,
When love with honour meets me.
When Hymen moulds us into ane,
My Robie 's nearer than my kin,
And to refuse him were a sin,
Sae lang 's he kindly treats me.

When I 'm in mine ain house,
True love shall be at hand aye,
To make me still a prudent spouse,
And let my man command aye;
Avoiding ilka cause of strife,
The common pest of married life,
That makes ane wearied of his wife,
And breaks the kindly band aye.

By Ramsay.

Bonny Black-Eyed Mary Air-”Roy’s Wife.” By Beuler

 

Bonny Black-Eyed Mary

Air-”Roy’s Wife.”

Would you see a little fairy,

Lips of truth which never vary,

Eyes of sloes,

And cheeks of rose?

You’d love to see my bonny Mary.

Hers is the form the Graces mould,

To charm and steal away the senses;

To raise a flame in bosoms cold,

And make them think of love’s offences.

O! my bonny black-eyed Mary!

Dearest, sweetest, rosy Mary!

Fancy sights

In light blue eyes,

But smiles in thine, my bonny Mary.

Her raven locks float in the wind.

Like Fairy webs in moonlight waving;

E’er weaving snares for heart and mind,

And ev’ry gazing eye enslaving.

O! my bonny black-eyed Mary!

Dearest, sweetest, rosy Mary!

Fancy thieves

Thy locks, and weaves

A snare for love, my bonny Mary

Her bosom is young Pleasure’s couch,

But free from ev’ry thought unholy;

For though it’s warm to virtue’s touch,

‘Tis cold as ice to that of folly.

O! my bonny black-eyed Mary!

Dearest, sweetest, rosy Mary!

Virtue dwells

In others’ spells,

But loves thine best, my bonny Mary.

Then who would melt the chastened snow,

Her bosom o’er by virtue sprinkled?

Ah! who would cause a tear to flow

From eyes when smiles have ever twinkled?

O! my bonny black-eyed Mary!

Dearest sweetest, rosy Mary!

Fancy sighs

In light blue eyes.

But smiles in thine, my bonny Mary!

By Beuler

Sandy Grey By C. Dibdin

 

Sandy Grey

Sandy Grey was a bit of a ranter,

O! he was the Highland gay,

When Mc Gregor he tuned up his chanter,

For footing a strathspey away,

Himself, too, could pipe like a throstel,

But then, if gude ale’ spide the chiel,

He’d so often be wetting his whistle,

When he piped he’d be dancing a reel,

Whith his toodle, roodle &co.

Making poetry, too, was his pleasure,

But wi’ Hellcon ne’er fashed his lug;

Like a poet, was found o’ gude measure,

Provided ‘twas ale in a mug:

He’d empty a flask down his throttle,

And then, like a poetic ass,

If you ask him the rhyme to a bottle,

Ten to one but he’d answer you- “glass.”

Toodle, roodle, &co.

Quickly he got dole for his drink

(Sorrow your sots a’sup, be assured)

He, an night, when the moon was na blinkin’,

Fell in a dyke and was smoored:

His mind ge’d to mugging been giving,

An’ could na fran dancing reel stop,

So as by the malt he stuck living,

His fate was to die by the hop,

Toodle, roodle,&co.

By C. Dibdin