Part 58 (1/2)
The Winter It Is Past
The winter it is past, and the summer comes at last And the small birds, they sing on ev'ry tree; Now ev'ry thing is glad, while I am very sad, Since my true love is parted from me.
The rose upon the breer, by the waters running clear, May have charms for the linnet or the bee; Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest, But my true love is parted from me.
The Bonie Lad That's Far Awa
O how can I be blythe and glad, Or how can I gang brisk and braw, When the bonie lad that I lo'e best Is o'er the hills and far awa!
It's no the frosty winter wind, It's no the driving drift and snaw; But aye the tear comes in my e'e, To think on him that's far awa.
My father pat me frae his door, My friends they hae disown'd me a'; But I hae ane will tak my part, The bonie lad that's far awa.
A pair o' glooves he bought to me, And silken snoods he gae me twa; And I will wear them for his sake, The bonie lad that's far awa.
O weary Winter soon will pa.s.s, And Spring will cleed the birken shaw; And my young babie will be born, And he'll be hame that's far awa.
Verses To Clarinda
Sent with a Pair of Wine-Gla.s.ses.
Fair Empress of the Poet's soul, And Queen of Poetesses; Clarinda, take this little boon, This humble pair of gla.s.ses:
And fill them up with generous juice, As generous as your mind; And pledge them to the generous toast, ”The whole of human kind!”
”To those who love us!” second fill; But not to those whom we love; Lest we love those who love not us-- A third--”To thee and me, Love!”
The Chevalier's Lament
Air--”Captain O'Kean.”
The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale; The primroses blow in the dews of the morning, And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale: But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, When the lingering moments are numbered by care?
No birds sweetly singing, nor flow'rs gaily springing, Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.
The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice?
A king and a father to place on his throne!
His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys, Where the wild beasts find shelter, tho' I can find none!
But 'tis not my suff'rings, thus wretched, forlorn, My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn; Your faith proved so loyal in hot b.l.o.o.d.y trial,-- Alas! I can make it no better return!