Anither, and anither yet!—
How fast my life-strings break!
Fareweel! fareweel! through yon kirk-yard
Step lichtly for my sake!
The lav'rock in the lift, Willie,
That lilts far ower our heid,
Will sing the morn as merrilie
Abune the clay-cauld deid;
And this green turf we're sittin' on,
Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen,
Will hap the heart that luvit thee
As warld has seldom seen.
But oh! remember me, Willie,
On land where'er ye be—
And oh! think on the leal, leal heart,
That ne'er luvit ane but thee!
And oh! think on the cauld, cauld mools,
That file my yellow hair—
That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin,
Ye never sall kiss mair!
Dirge of a Highland Chief.
[Set to music by R. A. Smith.]
Son of the mighty and the free,
Loved leader of the faithful brave,
Was it for high-rank'd chief like thee
To fill a nameless grave?
Oh, hadst thou slumber'd with the slain.
Had glory's death-bed been thy lot,
Even though on red Culloden's plain,
We then had mourn'd thee not.
But darkly closed thy morn of fame,
That morn whose sunbeams rose so fair:
Revenge alone may breathe thy name,
The watch-word of despair.
Yet, oh, if gallant spirit's power
Has e'er ennobled death like thine,
Then glory mark'd thy parting hour,
Last of a mighty line.
O'er thy own bowers the sunshine falls,
But cannot cheer their lonely gloom;
Those beams that gild thy native walls
Are sleeping on thy tomb.
Spring on the mountains laughs the while,
Thy green woods wave in vernal air;
But the loved scenes may vainly smile—
Not e'en thy dust is there.
On thy blue hills no bugle sound
Is mixing with the torrent's roar;
Unmark'd the red deer sport around—
Thou lead'st the chase no more.
Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still—
Those halls where swell'd the coral strain:
They hear the wild winds murmuring shrill,
And all is hush'd again.
Thy bard his pealing harp has broke—
His fire, his joy of song, is past!
One lay to mourn thy fate he woke,
His saddest, and his last.
No other theme to him is dear
Than lofty deeds of thine:
Hush'd be the strain thou canst not hear,
Last of a mighty line.
Callum-a-Glen.
[James Hogg.—Air, "Malcolm of the Glen."]
Was ever old warrior of suffering so weary?
Was ever the wild beast so bayed in his den?
The Southron blood hounds lie in kennels so near me,
That death would be freedom to Callum-a-Glen.
My chief they have slain, and of stay have bereft me,
My sons are all slain and my daughters have left me;
No child to protect me, where once there was ten,
And woe to the grey hairs of Callum-a-Glen.
The homes of my kindred are blazing to heaven,
The bright sun of morning has blushed of the view;
The moon has stood still on the verge of the even,
To wipe from her pale cheek the tint of the dew:
For the dew it lies red on the vales of Lochaber;
It sprinkles the cot and it flows from the pen.
The pride of my country is fallen for ever!
Death, hast thou no shaft for old Callum-a-Glen?
The sun in his glory has looked on our sorrow,
The stars have wept blood over hamlet and lea:
Oh, is there no day-spring for Scotland? no morrow
Of bright renovation for souls of the free?
