The soft blue sky, the spangled earth,
The rich green woods, the streamlet's mirth—
All Nature's voice cries loud—Be gay!
Oh! 'tis the flowery month of May.
Hie to the woodlands, hie!
The lambs frisk on the lea,
And the little birds are singing blythe
From every brake and tree.
In every note that steals along
Is heard the tale of their sweet song;
'Tis love that bids them chant—Be gay!
Oh! 'tis the flowery month of May.
Hie to the woodlands, hie!
And gather honey flowers
On mossy bank and brackeny braes
The long sweet summer hours.
The cowslip and the sweet blue-bell,
The wild rose and the pimpernell,
And wild thyme too, all cry—Be gay!
Oh! 'tis the flowery month of May.
The happy hour is nigh—
I'll seek the shady grove,
With her my heart longs for its own,
And sing my notes of love.
The purest flower from earth that springs,
The sweetest bird on tree that sings,
Are nought to her I bid—Be gay!
Oh! 'tis the flowery month of May.
The Woodlark
[Written by Burns, for Thomson's collection, and suited either for the tune of "Loch-Eroch side," or "Where'll bonnie Ann lie."]
O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay,
Nor quit for me the trembling spray,
A hapless lover courts thy lay,
Thy soothing fond complaining.
Again, again that tender part,
That I may catch thy melting art:
For surely that wad touch her heart,
Wha kills me wi' disdaining.
Say, was thy little mate unkind,
And heard thee as the careless wind?
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd,
Sic notes o' woa could wauken.
Thou tells o' never-ending care;
O' speechless grief, and dark despair;
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair!
Or my poor heart is broken!
As gloaming was drawing.
[John Fleming.—Air, "Lucy's Flitting."]
As gloaming was drawing her veil o'er the mountains,
And tinging with azure the far distant hill;
And, save the small rills from the moss-cover'd fountains,
The lone face of nature was silent and still.
How sweetly the stream of the valley meander'd,
And sweet was the scent of the hoar hawthorn tree;
Thus allured by the beauties of nature I wander'd
To where the small streamlet was lost in the sea.
And there sat a maiden, lamenting her lover,
Responsive she sigh'd to the slow-heaving wave:
"Thy cares and thy sorrows, dear Edward, are over,"
She said, "Though the wild weltering deep is thy grave."
Oh, thine was a bosom once fraught with affection,
Yes, thine was a heart that to friendship was dear;
Pure virtue has found in thy bosom protection,—
Thy bright eye to pity denied not a tear.
Oh, hope, gentle hope, thou art gone, yes, for ever,
No more thy bright bcims can illumine my mind;
For in this lone bosom shall flourish for ever
Wild stems of despair with distraction entwined.
Roll slowly, roll slowly, thou dark-heaving billow,
Roll slowly along o'er the bed of the brave;
Oh, move not his head from his soft sandy pillow,
But heave the soft sea-weeds along by his grave.
And mine be the task in the stillness of gloaming,
To view the smooth waters that cover his bed;
And when the winds blow and the billows are foaming,
Oh, then shall the tears of remembrance be shed.
