The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume Iii Part 3

Her naked feet, amang the gra.s.s, Seem'd like twa dew-gemm'd lilies fair; Her brow shone comely 'mang her locks, Dark curling owre her shoulders bare; Her cheeks were rich wi' bloomy youth; Her lips had words and wit at will, And heaven seem'd looking through her een, The lovely la.s.s of Preston Mill.

Quo' I, "Sweet la.s.s, will ye gang wi' me, Where blackc.o.c.ks crow, and plovers cry?

Six hills are woolly wi' my sheep, Six vales are lowing wi' my kye: I have look'd lang for a weel-favour'd la.s.s, By Nithsdale's holmes an' mony a hill;"

She hung her head like a dew-bent rose, The lovely la.s.s of Preston Mill.

Quo' I, "Sweet maiden, look nae down, But gie 's a kiss, and gang wi' me:"

A lovelier face, oh! never look'd up, And the tears were drapping frae her e'e: "I hae a lad, wha 's far awa', That weel could win a woman's will; My heart 's already fu' o' love,"

Quo' the lovely la.s.s of Preston Mill.

"Now wha is he wha could leave sic a la.s.s, To seek for love in a far countrie?"

Her tears drapp'd down like simmer dew: I fain wad kiss'd them frae her e'e.

I took but ane o' her comely cheek; "For pity's sake, kind sir, be still!

My heart is fu' o' ither love,"

Quo' the lovely la.s.s of Preston Mill.

She stretch'd to heaven her twa white hands, And lifted up her watery e'e-- "Sae lang 's my heart kens aught o' G.o.d, Or light is gladsome to my e'e; While woods grow green, and burns rin clear, Till my last drap o' blood be still, My heart shall haud nae other love,"

Quo' the lovely la.s.s of Preston Mill.

There 's comely maids on Dee's wild banks, And Nith's romantic vale is fu'; By lanely Cluden's hermit stream Dwells mony a gentle dame, I trow.

Oh, they are lights of a gladsome kind, As ever shone on vale or hill; But there 's a light puts them a' out, The lovely la.s.s of Preston Mill.

GANE WERE BUT THE WINTER CAULD.

Gane were but the winter cauld, And gane were but the snaw, I could sleep in the wild woods, Where primroses blaw.

Cauld 's the snaw at my head, And cauld at my feet, And the finger o' death 's at my een, Closing them to sleep.

Let nane tell my father, Or my mither dear: I 'll meet them baith in heaven, At the spring o' the year.

IT 'S HAME, AND IT 'S HAME.

It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be, An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the tree, The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie; It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be, An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The green leaf o' loyalty 's beginning for to fa', The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a': But I 'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie, An' green it will grow in my ain countrie.

It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be, An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

There 's naught now frae ruin my country to save, But the keys o' kind Heaven to open the grave, That a' the n.o.ble martyrs who died for loyaltie, May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.

It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be, And it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save, The new gra.s.s is springing on the tap o' their grave; But the sun through the mirk blinks blithe in my e'e: "I 'll s.h.i.+ne on ye yet in your ain countrie."

It 's hame, an' it 's hame, hame fain wad I be, An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

THE LOVELY La.s.s OF INVERNESS.

There lived a la.s.s in Inverness, She was the pride of a' the town; Blithe as the lark on gowan-tap, When frae the nest but newly flown.

At kirk she won the auld folks' love, At dance she was the young men's een; She was the blithest aye o' the blithe, At wooster-trystes or Hallowe'en.

As I came in by Inverness, The simmer-sun was sinking down; Oh, there I saw the weel-faur'd la.s.s, And she was greeting through the town: The gray-hair'd men were a' i' the streets, And auld dames crying, (sad to see!) "The flower o' the lads of Inverness Lie dead upon Culloden-lee!"

She tore her haffet-links of gowd, And dighted aye her comely e'e; "My father's head 's on Carlisle wall, At Preston sleep my brethren three!

I thought my heart could haud nae mair, Mae tears could ever blin' my e'e; But the fa' o' ane has burst my heart, A dearer ane there couldna be!

"He trysted me o' love yestreen, Of love-tokens he gave me three; But he 's faulded i' the arms o' weir, Oh, ne'er again to think o' me!

The forest flowers shall be my bed, My food shall be the wild berrie, The fa' o' the leaf shall co'er me cauld, And wauken'd again I winna be."

Oh weep, oh weep, ye Scottish dames, Weep till ye blin' a mither's e'e; Nae reeking ha' in fifty miles, But naked corses, sad to see.

Oh spring is blithesome to the year, Trees sprout, flowers spring, and birds sing hie; But oh! what spring can raise them up, That lie on dread Culloden-lee?

The hand o' G.o.d hung heavy here, And lightly touch'd foul tyrannie; It struck the righteous to the ground, And lifted the destroyer hie.

"But there 's a day," quo' my G.o.d in prayer, "When righteousness shall bear the gree; I 'll rake the wicked low i' the dust, And wauken, in bliss, the gude man's e'e!"

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free, Away the good s.h.i.+p flies, and leaves Old England on the lee.

Oh for a soft and gentle wind!

I hear a fair one cry; But give to me the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high; And white waves heaving high, my boys, The good s.h.i.+p tight and free-- The world of waters is our home, And merry men are we.

There 's tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud; And hark the music, mariners!

The wind is piping loud; The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flas.h.i.+ng free-- While the hollow oak our palace is, Our heritage the sea.

THE BONNIE BARK.

O come, my bonnie bark!

O'er the waves let us go, With thy neck like the swan, And thy wings like the snow.

Spread thy plumes to the wind, For a gentle one soon Must welcome us home, Ere the wane of the moon.