The Book of Scottish Song/Say not the Bard

Say not the Bard.

[W. M'Laren.—First printed in "The Harp of Renfrewshire."]

Though the winter of age wreathes her snow on his head,
And the blooming effulgence of summer is fled,
Though the voice that was sweet, as the harp's softest string,
Be trem'lous, and low as the zephyrs of spring,
⁠Yet say not the Bard has turned old.

Though the casket that holds the rich jewel we prize,
Attracts not the gaze of inquisitive eyes;
Yet the gem that's within may be lovely and bright,
As the smiles of the morn or the stars of the night,
⁠Then say not the Bard has turned old.

When the tapers burn clear and the goblet shines bright,
In the hall of his chief on a festival night,
I have smiled at the glance of his rapturous eye,
While the brim of the goblet laugh'd back in reply;
⁠Then say not the Bard has turned old.

When he sings of the valorous deeds that were done,
By his clan or his chief in the days that are gone,
His strains then are various—now rapid—now slow,
As he mourns for the dead or exults o'er the foe;
⁠Then say not the Bard has turned old.

When summer in gaudy profusion is dress'd,
And the dew-drop hangs clear on the violet's breast,
I list with delight to his rapturous strain,
While the borrowing echo returns it again;
⁠Then say not the Bard has turned old.

But not summer's profusion alone can inspire
His soul in the song, or his hand on the lyre,
But rapid his numbers, and wilder they flow,
When the wintry winds rave o'er the mountains of snow;
⁠Then say not the Bard has turned old.

I have seen him elated when the black clouds were riven,
Terrific and wild by the thunder of heaven,
And smile at the billows that angrily rave,
Incessant and deep o'er the mariner's grave;
⁠Then say not the Bard has turned old.

When the eye that expresses the warmth of his heart,
Shall fail the benevolent wish to impart,—
When his blood shall be cold as the wintr'y wave,
And silent his harp as the gloom of the grave,—
⁠Then say that the Bard has turned old.

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