O what'll she do in heaven, my lassie, O what'll she do in heaven? She'll mix her ain thoughts wi' angel's sangs, And make them mair meet for heaven. She was dearly beloved by a', my lassie, Lowly there thou lies, my lassie, Lowly there thou lies: A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird, Fu' soon I'll follow thee, my lassie, Thou left me nought to covet ahin', I look'd on thy death-cold face, my lassie, I look'd on thy death-shut eye, my lassie, And a lovelier light in the brow of heaven, Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie, But gane was the holie breath o' heaven, There's naught but dust now mine, lassie, CCLVI. ISABELLE. A SERENADE. Isabelle! Isabelle! hark to my soft lute, The sorrows of one whose lips are mute, Awake from your slumbers, my Isabelle, Oh! list to its murmurings, They breathe not to blame thee-they sigh but to tell The anguish that moves their strings. Lo, the moon seems to weep on her way my love, And, shrouded in clouds, seems to say, my love, "No hope with the morrow springs." Hark! on the breeze booms the heavy sound And its walls, ere a few short hours wheel round, Shall inclose thee, my Isabelle : And thou shalt be torn from my arms, my love, Where these midnight requiems swell. I see thee before the high altar kneel, And thou shalt fade in thy bloom, my love, We grew, and we lov'd, in youth's sunny day, But the pilgrim's rude hand pluck'd one bud away, And the other was strown by the gale. Our hearts, upon earth, were as one, my love, And now when thine is gone, my love, Mine also its doom shall hail, CCLVII. DESPAIRING MARY. Mary, why thus waste thy youth-time in sorrow? "This 'kerchief he gave me, a true lover's token, Dear, dear to me was the gift for his sake! I wear't near my heart, but this poor heart is broken, Sighing for brim I lie down in the e'ening, "Oft have we wander'd in sweetest retirement, Telling our loves 'neath the moon's silent beam, Sweet were our meetings of tender endearment, But fled are these joys like a fleet-passing dream, Cruel Remembrance, ah! why wilt thou wreck me, CCLVIII. WILL HE NO COME BACK AGAIN. Will he no come back again, And will he no come back again? Mony a traitor 'mang the hills, Sought to draw-sought to draw, Mony a traitor 'mang the hills, Sought to draw his life awa'. * These Jacobite verses were handed us by a gentleman who has shewn much interest in the prosperity of this publication, and who signs himself R. M. Glasgow. "I recovered them" says he, "from the recitation of an old woman from Galloway. I do not know that they ever appeared in print. She says, the song was current in her part of the country about forty years ago, but for the last fifteen or twenty years she has scarcely ever heard it sung. This is all the information I can acquire respecting the piece. The verses are natural and simple," &c. 1819. |