Слике страница


TUNE" Paddy O'Rafferty." 'Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in,

And Martiamas dowie had wound up the year, That Lucy row'd up her wee kist, wi' her a' in't,

And left her auld master, and neibours sae dear. For Lucy had serv'd i' the glen a' the simmer;

She cain there afore the flow'r bloom'd on the pea; An orphan was she, an' they had been gude till her,

Sure that was the thing brought the tear in her ee. She gaed by the stable, whare Jamie was stannin',

Right sair was his kind heart the flittin' to see; Fare ye weel Lucy, quo' Jamie, and ran in.

-The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae her ee. As down the burn-side she gaed slow wi' her flittin',

Fare ye weel, Lucy, was ilkn bird's sang; She heard the craw sayin't, high on the tree sittin',

And Robin was chirpin't the brown leaves amang. O what is't that pits my poor heart in a flutter?

And what gars the tear come sae fast to my ee? If I was na ettled to be onie better,

Then what gars me wish onie better to be? I'm just like a lammie that loses its mither;

Nae mither nor friend the poor lammie can see; I fear I hae left my bit heart a' thegither,

Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my ee. Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae row'd up the ribbon,

The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie ga'e me: Yestreen when he ga'e me't, and saw I was sabbin',

I'll never forget the wae blink o' his ee. Tho' now he said naething, but Fare ye weel, Lucy;

It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see: He could na say mair, but just Fare ye

weel Lucy, Yet that I will mind to the day that I die.

The lamb likes the gowan wi’ dew when it's droukit ;

The hare likes the brake, and the braird on the lee; But Lucy likes Jamie;—she turn’d and she lookit;

She thought the dear place she wad never mair see. Ah! weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless !

And weel may he greet on the bank c' the burn! His bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless,

Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return.

Thou liņg'ring star, with less’ning ray,

That lov'st to greet the early morn,
Again thou usher’st in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
That sacred hour can I forget ?-

Can I forget the hallowed grove,
Where by the winding Ayr we met

To live one day of parting love?
Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past,
Thy image at our last embrace;-

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last !
Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbled shore,

O’erhung with wild woods, thick’ning, green;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,

Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,

The birds sang love on every spray,
Till too, too soon, the glowing west

Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes,

And fondly broods with miser care;
Time but the impression stronger makes,

As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? *

* The Editor of the Reliques of Burns has the following remarks on the circumstance that gave birth to this exquisite effusion.-" There are events in this transitory scene of existence, seasons of joy or of sorrow, of despair or of hope, which, as they powerfully affect us at the time, serve as epochs to the history of our lives. They may be termed the trials of the heart.-We treasure them deeply in our memory, and, as time glides silently away, they help us to number our days. Of this character was the parting of Burns with his Highland Mary, that interesting female, the first object of the youthful Poet's love. This adieu was performed with all those simple and striking ceremonials which rustic sentiment has devised to prolong tender emotions, and to inspire awe. The lovers stood on each side of a small purling brook ; they laved their hands in its limpid stream, and holding a Bible between them, pronounced their vows to be faithful to each other. They parted-never to meet again!

“ The anniversary of Mary Campbell's death (for that was her name) awakening in the sensitive mind of Burns the most lively emotion, he retired from his family, then residing on the farm of Ellisland, and wandered, solitary, on the banks of the Nith, and about the farm-yard, in the extremest agitation of mind, nearly the whole of the night. His agitation was so great that he threw himself on the side of a corn-stack, and there conceived his sublime and tender elegy-his address to Mary in Heaven.”

[merged small][ocr errors]

TUNE" There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame,” O WAE to the warriors !—they cause me to mourn The absence of pleasures that ne'er may return; They've taen my true lover, relentless, frae me, And banish'd him far owre the dark rolling sea. Tho'the rose blaws na there, tho’the grass grows na green, But the loud-roaring billows are surging between, The loud-roaring billows are music to meThey bring to my mem'ry the Man o'the Sea. How braw we were married the ither blythe year! Syne a bonnie wee bairnie our joys to endear; But ilka endearment is fled far frae meMy heart's in exile wi' the Man oʻthe Sea, They say he's no bonnie, they say he's no great,Unworthy my bosom-unworthy their state; But, far though he's distant, and friendless he be, They'll nane of them match wi’ the Man o' the Sea.

Sedate i' the council, and brave i' the field,
The sword or the sceptre alike he could wield;
Wi the bravest he prov'd ay the bravest to be
Now gallantry mourns for the Man o' the Sea,
When I look on my bairnie my heart it beats sad;
In happier moments 'twas wont to beat glad:
We thought him the hope o' our fortune to be,
Nor e'er dreamt o' rocks in the dark-rolling sea.
But what is life's pleasure?-_a beam wand'ring rare,
That breaks on the morning o' sunless despair :
Now the dark-low'ring tempest frowns angry on me,
And far is my solace--the Man o' the Sea.

Hard-hearted is fortune!-my heart it maun burn,
And friends mair hard-hearted forbid me to mourn;
But the fu'tide o' sorrow, deny'd to my ee,
Will burst frae my heart for the Man o'the Sea. *

This original piece is the production of a gentleman at present residing in Glasgow,---but whose name the Editor is not at liberty to mention. The allusions are obvious, and render ex. planation unnecessary. It will be at once observed that they point to real circumstances, and of a very recent date; but, it must be confessed, the circumstances are such as somewhat to neutralize the nationality of the song. The language, however, is sufficient to fix the country to which it ought to belong, particularly, as no good reasons can be assigned for considering cir. cumstances and events foreign to Scottish history and manners as improper subjects of Scottish song; and when these circumstances and events affect the best feelings and affections of the human heart, reasons of every kind are still less to be regarded : for no considerations whatever, either moral, philosophical, or political, can possibly neutralize these affections, or prevent the inhabitant of one country from sympathizing with the native of another, whose dearest feelings and tenderest affections may be rudely and wantonly violated. The subject of the song under notice, presents a case exactly of this latter description. When the personage denominated the Man of the Sea once had occasion to go to Italy for a time, his wife, who is to be considered as the speaker in the song; and who may surely be supposed to love her husband without any shock to the best feelings that people have about them, was represented as uneasily anxious to visit Italy:when he would have paid a visit to England some time ago, it was said she was busy learning the English language; and now that he is held in durance on a barren and frightful rock in the bosom of the Atlantic, we are told that she displays her sympathy by paying frequent visits to a valley of the same name, in the neighbourhood of her place of residence.

« ПретходнаНастави »