HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL. (continued 2)

When the glen all is still, save the stream of the fountain, When the shepherd has ceased o'er the dark heath to roam, And the wail of the plover awakes on the mountain, Inviting her mate to return to his home— Oh! meet me, Eliza, adown by the wild-wood, Where the wild daisies sleep 'mong the low-lying dew, And our bliss shall be sweet as the visions of childhood, And pure as the fair star, in heaven's deep blue. Thy locks shall be braided in drops of the gloaming, And fann'd by the far-travell'd breeze of the lawn; The spirits of heaven shall know of thy coming, And watch o'er our joy till the hour of the dawn. No woes shall we know of dark fortune's decreeing, Of the past and the future my dreams may not be, For the light of thine eye seems the home of my being, And my soul's fondest thoughts shall be gather'd to thee.

Gae, bring my guid auld harp ance mair,— Gae, bring it free and fast,— For I maun sing another sang Ere a' my glee be past; And trow ye as I sing, my lads, The burden o't shall be Auld Scotland's howes, and Scotland's knowes, And Scotland's hills for me— I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet Wi' a' the honours three. The heath waves wild upon her hills, And foaming frae the fells, Her fountains sing o' freedom still, As they dance down the dells; And weel I lo'e the land, my lads, That's girded by the sea; Then Scotland's dales, and Scotland's vales, And Scotland's hills for me— I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet Wi' a' the honours three. The thistle wags upon the fields Where Wallace bore his blade, That gave her foemen's dearest bluid To dye her auld gray plaid; And looking to the lift, my lads, He sang this doughty glee— Auld Scotland's right, and Scotland's might, And Scotland's hills for me— I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet Wi' a' the honours three. They tell o' lands wi' brighter skies, Where freedom's voice ne'er rang; Gie me the hills where Ossian lies, And Coila's minstrel sang; For I've nae skill o' lands, my lads, That ken nae to be free; Then Scotland's right, and Scotland's might, And Scotland's hills for me— I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet Wi' a' the honours three.

I sat in the vale, 'neath the hawthorns so hoary, And the gloom of my bosom seem'd deep as their shade, For remembrance was fraught with the far-travell'd story, That told where the dust of the minstrel was laid: I saw not his harp on the wild boughs above me, I heard not its anthems the mountains among; But the flow'rets that bloom'd on his grave were more lovely Than others would seem to the earth that belong. "Sleep on," said my soul, "in the depths of thy slumber Sleep on, gentle bard! till the shades pass away; For the lips of the living the ages shall number That steal o'er thy heart in its couch of decay: Oh! thou wert beloved from the dawn of thy childhood, Beloved till the last of thy suffering was seen, Beloved now that o'er thee is waving the wild-wood, And the worm only living where rapture hath been. "Till the footsteps of time are their travel forsaking, No form shall descend, and no dawning shall come, To break the repose that thy ashes are taking, And call them to life from their chamber of gloom: Yet sleep, gentle bard! for, though silent for ever, Thy harp in the hall of the chieftain is hung; No time from the mem'ry of mankind shall sever The tales that it told, and the strains that it sung."

No sky shines so bright as the sky that is spread O'er the land that gave birth to the first breath we drew— Such radiance but lives in the eye of the maid That is dear to our heart—to our heart ever true. With her—yes, with her that this spirit has bless'd, 'Neath my dear native sky let my home only be; And the valley of flowers, and the heath-covered waste, Shall alike have a spell of enchantment for me. Let her eye pour its light o'er the joy of my heart, Or mingle its beam with the gloom of my woe, And each shadow of care from the soul shall depart, Save of care that on her it is bliss to bestow. My thought shall not travel to sun-lighted isles, Nor my heart own a wish for the wealth they may claim, But live and be bless'd in rewarding her smiles With the song of the harp that shall hallow her name. The anthems of music delightful may roll, Or eloquence flow as the waves of the sea, But the sounds that enchantment can shed o'er the soul Are—the lass that we love, and the land that is free!

I form'd a green bower by the rill o' yon glen, Afar from the din and the dwellings of men; Where still I might linger in many a dream, And mingle my strains wi' the voice o' the stream. From the cave and the cliff, where the hill foxes roam, Where the earn has his nest and the raven his home, I brought the young flower-buds ere yet they had smiled, And taught them to bloom round my bower of the wild. But the fair maidens came, from yon vale far away, And sought my lone grotto still day after day, And soon were the stems of their fair blossoms shorn That the flowers of the bard might their ringlets adorn. Full fair were they all, but the maiden most fair Would still have no flower till I pull'd it with care; And gentle, and simple, and modest, and mild, She stole my lone heart in the bower of the wild. The summer is past, and the maidens are gone, And this heart, like my grotto, is wither'd and lone, And yet, with the winter, I'll cease not to mourn, Unless, with the blossoms, these fair ones return. Oh! had they ne'er come, or had ne'er gone away, I sing in my sorrow still day after day. The scene seems a desert—the charm is exiled, And woe to my blooms and my bower of the wild!

I winna love the laddie that ca's the cart and pleugh, Though he should own that tender love, that's only felt by few; For he that has this bosom a' to fondest love betray'd, Is the faithfu' shepherd laddie that wears the crook and plaid; For he's aye true to his lassie—he's aye true to his lassie, Who wears the crook and plaid. At morn he climbs the mountains wild his fleecy flocks to view, While o'er him sweet the laverock sings, new sprung frae 'mang the dew; His doggie frolics roun' and roun', and may not weel be stay'd, Sae blithe it is the laddie wi' that wears the crook and plaid; And he's aye true, &c. At noon he leans him down upon the high and heathy fell, And views his flocks, beneath him a', fair feeding in the dell; And there he sings the sangs o' love, the sweetest ever made; O! how happy is the laddie that wears the crook and plaid; And he's aye true, &c. He pu's the bells o' heather red, and the lily-flowers sae meek, Ca's the lily like my bosom, and the heath-bell like my cheek; His words are sweet and tender, as the dews frae heaven shed; And weel I love to list the lad who wears the crook and plaid; For he's aye true, &c. When the dews begin to fauld the flowers, and the gloamin' shades draw on, When the star comes stealing through the sky, and the kye are on the loan, He whistles through the glen sae sweet, the heart is lighter made To ken the laddie hameward hies who wears the crook and plaid; For he's aye true, &c. Beneath the spreading hawthorn gray, that's growing in the glen, He meets me in the gloamin' aye, when nane on earth can ken, To woo and vow, and there I trow, whatever may be said, He kens aye unco weel the way to row me in his plaid; For he's aye true, &c. The youth o' mony riches may to his fair one ride, And woo across the table cauld his madam-titled bride; But I'll gang to the hawthorn gray, where cheek to cheek is laid, Oh! nae wooers like the laddie that rows me in his plaid; And he's aye true, &c. To own the truth o' tender love what heart wad no comply, Since love gives purer happiness than aught aneath the sky? If love be in the bosom, then the heart is ne'er afraid; And through life I'll love the laddie that wears the crook and plaid; For he's aye true, &c.

Oh, lassie! if thou'lt gang to yonder glen wi' me, I'll weave the wilds amang a bonnie bower for thee; I'll weave a bonnie bower o' the birks and willows green, And to my heart thou'lt be what nae other e'er has been. When the dew is on the flower, and the starlight on the lea, In the bonnie green-wood bower I'll wake my harp to thee; I'll wake my hill-harp's strain, and the echoes o' the dell Shall restore the tales again that its notes o' love shall tell. Oh, lassie! thou art fair as the morning's early beam, As the image of a flower reflected frae the stream; There's kindness in thy heart, and there's language in thine e'e, But ah! its looks impart nae sweet tale o' love to me! Oh, lassie! wert thou mine I wad love thee wi' such love As the lips can ne'er define, and the cold can never prove; In the bower by yonder stream our happy home should be, And our life a blissful dream, while I lived alone for thee. When I am far away my thoughts on thee shall rest, Allured, as by a ray, frae the dwellings o' the blest; For beneath the clouds o' dew, where'er my path may be, Oh! a maiden fair as thou, I again shall never see!

When the star of the morning is set, And the heavens are beauteous and blue, And the bells of the heather are wet With the drops of the deep-lying dew; 'Mong the flocks on the mountains that lie, 'Twas blithesome and blissful to be, When these all my thoughts would employ; But now I must think upon thee. When noontide displays all its powers, And the flocks to the valley return, To lie and to feed 'mong the flowers That bloom on the banks of the burn; O sweet, sweet it was to recline 'Neath the shade of yon hoar hawthorn-tree, And think on the charge that was mine; But now I must think upon thee. When Gloaming stole down from the rocks, With her fingers of shadowy light, And the dews of the eve in her locks, To spread down a couch for the night; 'Twas sweet through yon green birks to stray, That border the brook and the lea; But now, 'tis a wearisome way, Unless it were travell'd with thee. All lovely and pure as thou art, And generous of thought and of will, Oh Mary! speak thou to this heart, And bid its wild beating be still; I'd give all the ewes in the fold— I'd give all the lambs on the lea, By night or by day to behold One look of true kindness from thee.

Though all fair was that bosom, heaving white, While hung this fond spirit o'er thee; And though that eye, with beauty's light, Still bedimm'd every eye before thee; Oh! charms there were still more divine, When woke that melting voice of thine, The charms that caught this soul of mine, And taught it to adore thee. Then died the woes of the heart away With the thoughts of joys departed; For my soul seem'd but to live in thy lay, While it told of the faithful-hearted. Methought how sweet it were to be Far in some wild green glen with thee; From all of life and of longing free, Save what pure love imparted. Oh! I could stray where the drops of dew Never fell on the desert round me, And dwell where the fair flowers never grew If the hymns of thy voice still found me. Thy smile itself could the soul invest With all that here makes mortals bless'd; While every thought thy lips express'd In deeper love still bound me.

Would that I were where wild woods wave Aboon the beds where sleep the brave; And where the streams o' Scotia lave Her hills and glens o' grandeur! Where freedom reigns, and friendship dwells, Bright as the sun upon the fells, When autumn brings the heather-bells In all their native splendour. The thistle wi' the hawthorn joins, The birks mix wi' the mountain pines, And heart with dauntless heart combines For ever to defend her. Then would I were, &c. There roam the kind, and live the leal, By lofty ha' and lowly shiel; And she for whom the heart must feel A kindness still mair tender. Fair, where the light hill breezes blaw, The wild-flowers bloom by glen and shaw; But she is fairer than them a', Wherever she may wander. Then would I were, &c. Still, far or near, by wild or wood, I'll love the generous, wise, and good; But she shall share the dearest mood That Heaven to life may render. What boots it then thus on to stir, And still from love's enjoyment err, When I to Scotland and to her Must all this heart surrender. Then would I were, &c.

Oh! tell me what sound is the sweetest to hear— The sound that can most o'er our being prevail? 'Tis the sweet melting voice of the maid we love dear, When chanting the songs of her own native vale. More thrilling is this than the tone of the gale, Awakening the wind-harp's wild wandering lore; More sweet than the songster that sings in the dale, When the strains of the rest of the warblers are o'er. Oh! tell me what light, of the earth or the sky, Can the deepest delight to the spirit impart? 'Tis the bright beaming radiance that lives in the eye Of the maid that affection has bound to the heart. More charming is this than the glory of art, More lovely than rays from yon heavens above; It heightens each joy, as it soothes every smart, Enchanting our souls with the magic of love. Oh! tell me what drop is most melting and meek That aught 'neath the azure of heaven can share? 'Tis the tear-drop that falls o'er the dear maiden's cheek When she breathes o'er her lover her sigh and her prayer! More tender is this—more celestial and fair— Than the dew-drop that springs from the chamber of morn; A balm that still softens the ranklings of care, And heals every wound that the bosom hath borne.

Our Mary liket weel to stray Where clear the burn was rowin', And trouth she was, though I say sae, As fair as ought ere made o' clay, And pure as ony gowan. And happy, too, as ony lark The clud might ever carry; She shunn'd the ill, and sought the good, E'en mair than weel was understood; And a' fouk liket Mary. But she fell sick wi' some decay, When she was but eleven; And as she pined frae day to day, We grudged to see her gaun away, Though she was gaun to Heaven. There's fears for them that's far awa', And fykes for them are flitting, But fears and cares, baith grit and sma', We, by and by, o'er-pit them a'; But death there's nae o'er-pitting. And nature's bands are hard to break, When thus they maun be broken; And e'en the form we loved to see, We canna lang, dear though it be, Preserve it as a token. But Mary had a gentle heart— Heaven did as gently free her; Yet lang afore she reach'd that part, Dear sir, it wad hae made ye start Had ye been there to see her. Sae changed, and yet sae sweet and fair, And growing meek and meeker, Wi' her lang locks o' yellow hair, She wore a little angel's air, Ere angels cam to seek her. And when she couldna stray out by, The wee wild-flowers to gather; She oft her household plays wad try, To hide her illness frae our eye, Lest she should grieve us farther. But ilka thing we said or did, Aye pleased the sweet wee creature; Indeed ye wad hae thought she had A something in her made her glad Ayont the course o' nature. For though disease, beyont remeed, Was in her frame indented, Yet aye the mair as she grew ill, She grew and grew the lovelier still, And mair and mair contented. But death's cauld hour cam' on at last, As it to a' is comin'; And may it be, whene'er it fa's, Nae waur to others than it was To Mary, sweet wee woman!