The valley lay smiling before me,
Where lately I left her behind;
Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me,
That sadden'd the joy of my mind.
I look'd for the lamp which, she told me,
Should shine when her Pilgrim return'd;
But, though darkness began to infold me,
No lamp from the battlements burn'd!
I flew to her chamber -- 'twas lonely,
As if the loved tenant lay dead; --
Ah, would it were death, and death only!
But no, the young false one had fled.
And there hung the lute that could soften
My very worst pains into bliss;
While the hand that had waked it so often
Now throbb'd to a proud rival's kiss.
"And the sins of the fathers shall be
visited upon the heads of the children,
even unto the third and fourth
generation of them that hate me."
Well, then I hate thee, unrighteous picture;
Wicked image, I hate thee;
So, strike with thy vengeance
The heads of those little men
Who come blindly.
It will be a brave thing.
Woman's faith, and woman's trust -
Write the characters in the dust;
Stamp them on the running stream,
Print them on the moon's pale beam,
And each evanescent letter
Shall be clearer, firmer, better,
And more permanent, I ween,
Than the thing those letters mean.
I have strain'd the spider's thread
'Gainst the promise of a maid;
I have weigh'd a grain of sand
'Gainst her plight of heart and hand;
I told my true love of the token,
How her faith proved light, and her word was broken:
Again her word and truth she plight,
And I believed them again ere night.
BREATHES there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
'This is my own, my native land!'
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd
From wandering on a foreign strand?
If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.
Pavement slipp'ry, people sneezing,
Lords in ermine, beggars freezing ;
Titled gluttons dainties carving,
Genius in a garret starving.
Lofty mansions, warm and spacious ;
Courtiers clinging and voracious ;
Misers scarce the wretched heeding ;
Gallant soldiers fighting, bleeding.
Wives who laugh at passive spouses ;
Theatres, and meeting-houses ;
Balls, where simp'ring misses languish ;
Hospitals, and groans of anguish.
Arts and sciences bewailing ;
Commerce drooping, credit failing ;
Placemen mocking subjects loyal ;
Separations, weddings royal.
Farewell, false love, the oracle of lies,
A mortal foe and enemy to rest,
An envious boy, from whom all cares arise,
A bastard vile, a beast with rage possessed,
A way of error, a temple full of treason,
In all effects contrary unto reason.
A poisoned serpent covered all with flowers,
Mother of sighs, and murderer of repose,
A sea of sorrows whence are drawn such showers
As moisture lend to every grief that grows;
A school of guile, a net of deep deceit,
A gilded hook that holds a poisoned bait.
A fortress foiled, which reason did defend,
A siren song, a fever of the mind,
A maze wherein affection finds no end,
A raging cloud that runs before the wind,
The stars may dissolve, and the fountain of light
May sink into ne'er ending chaos and night,
Our mansions must fall, and earth vanish away,
But thy courage O Erin! may never decay.
See! the wide wasting ruin extends all around,
Our ancestors' dwellings lie sunk on the ground,
Our foes ride in triumph throughout our domains,
And our mightiest heroes lie stretched on the plains.
Ah! dead is the harp which was wont to give pleasure,
Ah! sunk is our sweet country's rapturous measure,
But the war note is waked, and the clangour of spears,
The dread yell of Sloghan yet sounds in our ears.
Ah! where are the heroes! triumphant in death,
Convulsed they recline on the blood sprinkled heath,
DWELLER in yon dungeon dark,
Hangman of creation! mark,
Who in widow-weeds appears,
Laden with unhonour’d years,
Noosing with care a bursting purse,
Baited with many a deadly curse?
STROPHE View the wither’d Beldam’s face;
Can thy keen inspection trace
Aught of Humanity’s sweet, melting grace?
Note that eye, ’tis rheum o’erflows;
Pity’s flood there never rose,
See these hands ne’er stretched to save,
Hands that took, but never gave:
Keeper of Mammon’s iron chest,
Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest,
She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest!
FAREWELL, ye dungeons dark and strong,
The wretch’s destinie!
M’Pherson’s time will not be long
On yonder gallows-tree.
Chorus.—Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
Sae dauntingly gaed he;
He play’d a spring, and danc’d it round,
Below the gallows-tree.
O, what is death but parting breath?
On many a bloody plain
I’ve dared his face, and in this place
I scorn him yet again!
Sae rantingly, &c.
Untie these bands from off my hands,
And bring me to my sword;
And there’s no a man in all Scotland
ALTHO’ my back be at the wa’,
And tho’ he be the fautor;
Altho’ my back be at the wa’,
Yet, here’s his health in water.
O wae gae by his wanton sides,
Sae brawlie’s he could flatter;
Till for his sake I’m slighted sair,
And dree the kintra clatter:
But tho’ my back be at the wa’,
And tho’ he be the fautor;
But tho’ my back be at the wa’,
Yet here’s his health in water!
DIRE was the hate at old Harlaw,
That Scot to Scot did carry;
And dire the discord Langside saw
For beauteous, hapless Mary:
But Scot to Scot ne’er met so hot,
Or were more in fury seen, Sir,
Than ’twixt Hal and Bob for the famous job,
Who should be the Faculty’s Dean, Sir.
This Hal for genius, wit and lore,
Among the first was number’d;
But pious Bob, ’mid learning’s store,
Commandment the tenth remember’d:
Yet simple Bob the victory got,
And wan his heart’s desire,
Which shews that heaven can boil the pot,
Tho’ the devil piss in the fire.
WHA will buy my troggin, fine election ware,
Broken trade o’ Broughton, a’ in high repair?
Chorus.—Buy braw troggin frae the banks o’ Dee;
Wha wants troggin let him come to me.
There’s a noble Earl’s fame and high renown,
For an auld sang—it’s thought the gudes were stown—
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here’s the worth o’ Broughton in a needle’s e’e;
Here’s a reputation tint by Balmaghie.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here’s its stuff and lining, Cardoness’ head,
Fine for a soger, a’ the wale o’ lead.
Buy braw troggin, &c.
Here’s a little wadset, Buittle’s scrap o’ truth,
Pawn’d in a gin-shop, quenching holy drouth.
Buy braw troggin, &c.