Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/401

Rh Step lightly o'er, gang saftly by,

Mak' rig and furrow clean,

And coil it up in fragrant heaps,—

We maun ha'e done at e'en:—

We maun ha'e done at gloaming e'en;

And when the clouds grow grey,

Ilk lad may kiss his bonnie lass

Amang the new-made hay!

[ song was written by, a Kincardineshire peasant, who, amid toil and poverty, devoted his leisure hours to reading and the cultivation of his mind. He composed verses at the early age of fourteen; and when in his twenty-third year he published "Juvenile Lays," a collection of poems. Two years thereafter, he published "Kincardineshire Traditions" in one small volume. At a later period of his life he contributed several tales and sketches to "Chambers' Journal." He was engaged in preparing a volume of his tales for the press, when he was seized wth a cold, which settled on his lungs; and, returning home for the benefit of his native air, he died at Affrusk, in April, 1835, in the 30th year of his age.]

e'e o' the dawn, Eliza,

Blinks over the dark green sea,

An' the moon's creepin' down to the hill tap

Richt dim an' drowsilie;

An' the music o' the mornin'

Is murmurin' alang the air;

Yet still my dowie heart lingers

To catch one sweet throb mair.

We've been as blest, Eliza,

As children o' earth can be,

Though my fondest wish has been nipt by

The bonds o' povertie;

An' through life's misty sojourn,

That still may be our fa',

But hearts that are linked for ever

Ha'e strength to bear it a'.

The cot by the mutterin' burnie,

Its wee bit garden an' field,

May ha'e mair o' the blessin's o' heaven

Than lichts on the lordliest bield.

There's mony a young brow braided

Wi' jewels o' far aff isles,

But woe may be drinkin' the heart-springs

While we see nought but smiles.

But adieu, my ain Eliza!

Where'er my wanderin's be,

Undyin' remembrance will mak' thee

The star o' my destinie;

An' weel I ken, thou loved one,

That aye till I return

Thou'lt treasure pure faith in thy bosom

Like a gem in a gowden urn.

[ the "Lady's Poetical Album," Glasgow, 1830.]

wake it no more

By Strath-Fillan's blue fountain,

By Achray's lonely shore,

Or Benledi's high mountain—

No more wake the sound

Of the hunter's bold bugle;

For in death's narrow mound

Lies my loved Coilantugal!

How oft has that horn

To the chase hailed his coming,

At the first break of morn,

Ere the bee raised its humming;

Ere the maid, blythe of mood,

To the ewe-bught was wending,—

While each spray of the wood

With the dew-drops was bending.

When the fox from the shade

Of the pine-wood was peeping;

When the deer through the glade

In the grey dawn was leaping;

When the mist of the hills

From the sun-rise was flying;

And no sound—save the rills

And the wild breezes sighing—

Then—oh, then—the far cry

Of his deep-baying beagle,

From her eyrie on high

How it startled the eagle!