Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/572

554 O peace to the ashes of those that have bled

For the land where the proud thistle raises its head!

O peace to the ashes of those gave us birth

In a land freedom renders the boast of the earth!

Though their lives are extinguish'd, their spirit remains,

And swells in their blood that still runs in our veins:—

Still their deathless achievements our ardour awakes

For the honour and weal of the dear Land of Cakes.

Ye sons of old Scotia; ye friends of my heart,

From our word—from our trust, let us never depart!

Nor e'er from our foe, till with victory crown'd,

And the balm of compassion is pour'd in his wound;

And still to our bosom be honesty dear,

And still to our loves and our friendships sincere;

And, till heaven's last thunder the finnament shakes,

May happiness beam on the dear Land of Cakes!

[.—Set to music by R. A. Smith.—Smith says, "The music published with this song was originally composed to other words, but Tannihill took a fancy to the air, and immediately wrote 'Despairing Mary' for it, which, being the better song, was adopted."]

", why thus waste thy youth-time in sorrow?

See, a' around you the flowers sweetly blaw;

Blythe sets the sun o'er the wild cliffs of Jura,

Blythe sings the mavis in ilka green shaw."

"How can this heart ever mair think of pleasure?

Summer may smile, but delight I ha'e nane;

Cauld in the grave lies my heart's only treasure,

Nature seems dead since my Jamie is gane.

"This 'kerchief he gave me, a true lover's token,

Dear, dear to me was the gift for his sake!

I wear't near my heart, but this poor heart is broken,

Hope died with Jamie, and left it to break:

Sighing for him, I lie down in the e'ening,

Sighing for him, I awake in the morn;

Spent are my days a' in secret repining,

Peace to this bosom can never return.

"Oft have we wander'd in sweetest retirement,

Telling our loves 'neath the moon's silint beam,

Sweet were our meetings of tender endearment,

But fled are these joys like a fleet-passing dream.

Cruel remembrance, in pity forsake me,

Brooding o'er joys that for ever are flown!

Cruel remembrance, in pity forsake me,

Flee to some bosom where grief is unknown!"