Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/502

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484
SCOTTISH SONGS.

There’ll never be peace.

[This fine Jacobitical song was a contribution of Burns to Johnson's Museum. The original name of the tune is, "There 's few gude fellows when Jamie's awa'," and it appears with that titlo in Oswald's Caledonian Pocket Companion, (1740.) Sometimes it is called, "There 's few gude fellows when Willie's awa'." The words of the old song are supposed to be lost.]

By yon castle-wa', at the close o' the day,
I heard a man sing, though his head it was grey;
And as he was singing, the tears down came—
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars,
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars:
We daurna weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame,—
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,
And now I greet round their green beds in the yird:
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame—
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

Now life is a burden that bows me down,
Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;
But till my last moments my words are the same,—
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.




Lament.

[Written on the death of the Ettrick Shepherd, by the Rev. James Murray, author of the original songs given at page 39. Set to music by Peter Macleod.]

The summer hath pass'd o'er the Yarrow's green mountains,
The birch trembled wild by Loch Mary's lone shore;
The winter approaches to bind up the fountains,
But the Bard of the Forest shall cheer us no more.
No more shall he stray in the dusk of the gloaming,
To dream of the spirits in lands far away!
No more shall he list to the tempest loud moaning;
For the Bard of the Forest lies cold in the clay!

He rests with his fathers, no more to awaken
Sweet strains by the streamlets that speed to the main,
The wild echo sleeps in the glen of green bracken,
But the Shepherd shall never awake it again!
Bloom sweetly around him, ye pale drooping roses,
Breathe softly, ye winds, o'er his cold narrow bed!
Fall gently, ye dews, where the minstrel reposes,
And hallow the wild flowers that wave o'er his head!