Rural Tales, Ballads, and Songs Part 8

Tis this makes my Bonnet set light on my brow, Gives my sinews their strength and my bosom its glow.

Farewell, Mountaineers! my companions, adieu; Soon, many long miles when I'm severed from you, I shall miss your white Horns on the brink of the Bourne, And o'er the rough Heaths, where you'll never return: But in brave English pastures you cannot complain, While your Drover speeds back to his Maggy again.

O Tweed! gentle Tweed, as I pa.s.s your green vales, More than life, more than Love, my tir'd Spirit inhales; There Scotland, my darling, lies full in my view, With her bare-footed La.s.ses and Mountains so blue: To the Mountains away; my heart bounds like the Hind; For home is so sweet, and my Maggy so kind.

As day after day I still follow my course, And in fancy trace back every Stream to its source, Hope cheers me up hills, where the road lies before O'er hills just as high, and o'er tracks of wild Moor; The keen polar Star nightly rising to view; But Maggy's my Star, just as steady and true.

O Ghosts of my Fathers! O heroes, look down!

Fix my wandering thoughts on your deeds of renown, For the glory of Scotland reigns warm in my breast, And fort.i.tude grows both from toil and from rest; May your deeds and your worth be for ever in view, And may Maggy bear sons not unworthy of you.

Love, why do you urge me, so weary and poor?

I cannot step faster, I cannot do more; I've pa.s.s'd silver Tweed; e'en the Tay flows behind: Yet fatigue I'll disdain;--my reward I shall find: Thou, sweet smile of innocence, thou art my prize; And the joy that will sparkle in Maggy's blue eyes.

She'll watch to the southward;--perhaps she will sigh, That the way is so long, and the Mountains so high; Perhaps some huge Rock in the dusk she may see, And will say in her fondness, 'That surely is he!'

Good Wife, you're deceiv'd; I'm still far from my home; Go, sleep, my dear Maggy,--to-morrow I'll come.

A WORD TO TWO YOUNG LADIES.

WHEN tender Rose-trees first receive On half-expanded Leaves, the Shower; Hope's gayest pictures we believe, And anxious watch each coining flower.

Then, if beneath the genial Sun That spreads abroad the full-blown May, Two infant Stems the rest out-run, Their buds the first to meet the day,

With joy their op'ning tints we view, While morning's precious moments fly: My pretty Maids, 'tis thus with _you_; The fond admiring gazer, _I_.

Preserve, sweet Buds, where'er you be; The richest gem that decks a Wife; The charm of _female modesty:_ And let sweet Music give it life.

Still may the favouring Muse be found: Still circ.u.mspect the paths ye tread: Plant moral truths in Fancy's ground; And meet old Age without a dread.

Yet, ere that comes, while yet ye quaff The cup of Health without a pain, I'll shake my grey hairs when you laugh, And, when you sing, be young again.

Both the young Ladies had addressed to me a few complimentary lines, (and I am sorry that those of the elder sister were never in my possession;) in return for which I sent the above. It was received on the day on which the younger completed her ninth year. Surely it cannot be ascribed to vanity, if, in grat.i.tude to a most amiable family, I here preserve verbatim an effort of a child nine years old. I hare the more pleasure in doing it, because _I know_ them to be her own. R.B.

"Accept, dear Bard, the Muse's genuine thought, And take not ill the tribute of my heart:-- For thee the laureat wreath of praise I'll bind, None that have read thy commendable mind Can let it pa.s.s unnotic'd--nor can I-- For by thy lays I know thy sympathy." F.P.

ON HEARING THE TRANSLATION OF PART OF THE FARMER'S BOY INTO LATIN

_By the Rev. Mr. C--;_

Hey, Giles! in what new garb art dresst?

For Lads like you methinks a bold one; I'm glad to see thee so caresst; But, hark ye!--don't despise your old one.

Thou'rt not the first by many, a Boy Who've found abroad good friends to own 'em; Then, in such Coats have shown their joy, E'en their _own Fathers_ have not known 'em.

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NANCY

A Song.

You ask me, dear Nancy, what makes me presume That you cherish a secret affection for me?

When we see the Flow'rs bud, don't we look for the Bloom?

Then, sweetest, attend, while I answer to thee.

When we Young Men with pastimes the Twilight beguile, I watch your plump cheek till it dimples with joy: And observe, that whatever occasions the smile, You give me a glance; but provokingly coy.

Last Month, when wild Strawberries pluckt in the Grove, Like beads on the tall seeded gra.s.s you had strung; You gave me the choicest; I hop'd 'twas for Love; And I told you my hopes while the Nightingale sung.

Remember the Viper:--'twas close at your feet; How you started, and threw yourself into my arms; Not a Strawberry there was so ripe nor so sweet As the lips which I kiss'd to subdue your alarms.

As I pull'd down the cl.u.s.ters of Nuts for my Fair, What a blow I receiv'd from a strong bending bough; Though Lucy and other gay la.s.ses were there, Not one of them show'd such compa.s.sion as you.

And was it compa.s.sion?--by Heaven 'twas more!

A telltale betrays you;--that blush on your cheek.

Then come, dearest Maid, all your trifling give o'er, And whisper what Candour will teach you to speak.

Can you stain my fair Honour with one broken vow?

Can you say that I've ever occasion'd a pain?

On Truth's honest base let your tenderness grow: I swear to be faithful, again and again.

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ROSY HANNAH.

A Spring o'erhung with many a flow'r, The grey sand dancing in its bed, Embank'd beneath a Hawthorn bower, Sent forth its waters near my head: A rosy La.s.s approach'd my view; I caught her blue eye's modest beam: The stranger nodded 'How d'ye do!'

And leap'd across the infant stream.

The water heedless pa.s.s'd away: With me her glowing image stay'd.

I strove, from that auspicious day, To meet and bless the lovely Maid.

I met her where beneath our feet Through downy Moss the Wild-Thyme grew; Nor Moss elastic, flow'rs though sweet, Match'd Hannah's cheek of rosy hue.

I met her where the dark Woods wave, And shaded verdure skirts the plain; And when the pale Moon rising gave New glories to her cloudy train.

From her sweet Cot upon the Moor Our plighted vows to Heaven are flown; Truth made me welcome at her door, And rosy Hannah is my own.

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