The Book of Scottish Song/St. Mungo's Kirk-yard

St. Mungo's Kirk-yard.

[James Lemon.—Here first printed.—The author of this piece (a letter-carrier to the Glasgow Post Office) published in 1840 a small collection of "Original Poems and Songs."]

When the shadows o' midnicht fa' dark frae yon fane,
O'er the graves o' the dead a' sae silent an' lane;
An' the yellow sered leaf wavers in the chill breeze,
Singin' sadly the dirge o' the dead through the trees:
O! then, when the moon lichtly skims the nicht blue,
An' flings o'er a' nature a pale ghaistly hue,
I wander a' lanely, or lean on the sward,
Makin' main wi' the owl in St. Mungo's Kirk-yard.

Ah! the sad hollow echoes sounin' doon the auld pile,
Like the voice o' the dead risin' frae the dark aisle,
To me is mair dear than the mirth-making croud,
For a' my joy it is wrapt in my Peggy's death-shroud,—
In my Peggy's death-shroud wi' my wee bairnies three,
An' there 's nought worth the living for, if I could dee;
But though grey wi' grief I maun dree out my weird,
Till laid 'mang them a' in St. Mungo's Kirk-yard.

Ye've seen in the lane wild a bonnie wee flower,
Unconscious o' beauty, the pride o' its bower;
Sae my Peggy was fair, unassumin', an' meek,
The gowan's pure red an' white met in her cheek.
Till death cross'd our hallin an' took our first wean,
An' broke her sad heart aye sae dotin' an' fain;
For O! frae the day he was laid in the yird,
Her bloom it gaed wi' him to St. Mungo's Kirk-yard.

But had the fell spoiler but just stoppit here,
The floweret, that was noo sae pallid an' sere,
Wi' a mair sunny season micht bloom'd ance again,
But affliction, alas! seldom cometh alane;
For the death rap it knock'd mair than ance at our door,
An' bairn followed bairn to the dark mystic shore;
An' Peggy's fond bosom was sae sadly sered,
She followed them soon to St. Mungo's Kirk-yard.

In the dream o' the nicht an' the vision o' day,
I see her in a' her fond innocence gay,
Wi' her wee totums fondlin' and makin' sic glee,
An' O! it's a sweet glimpse o' heaven to me.
But I wake frae my dream to new sorrows again,
An' my vision it leaves me like ane that 'a insane,
For their green grassy graves by the wee cairn I rear'd
Rushes sad on my sicht in St. Mungo's Kirk-yard.

O! the warl' to me is a bleak, dreary waste,
Without a green spot where a fond hope micht rest;
An' I stan' 'mid the gloom like a shelterless tree,
Sair scathed wi' the blast left my blossoms frae me.
The rose in its beauty wakes sympathies fain,
An' the minstrel can soothe wi' his heart-meltin' strain;
But my peace, like a wee bird, awa' it is scar'd,
And I look for it here in St. Mungo's Kirk-yard.

But hush! my dear Peggy, why should I repine?
For this pale wasted clay it will soon mix wi' thine—
It will soon mix wi' thine an' my wee bairnies three,
For where the heart lingers the body will be.
An' yet in thy bosom I'll find my lost peace,
Where the weary frae a' their sad murmurin's cease,
An' though in the warl' our lot has been hard,
We'll rise yet wi' joy frae St. Mungo's Kirk-yard.

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