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Or lowlier board of Ashestiel ;'
THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW
AIR -“Rimhin aluin 'stu mo run."
The air composed by the Editor of Albyn's Anthology. The
words written for Mr. George Thomson's Scottish Melodies, [1822.]
The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,
In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet;
The lake lies sleeping at my feet.
Bears those bright hues that once it bore;
Flames o'er the hills of Ettricks shore.
With listless look along the plain,
I see Tweed's silver current glide,
Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride.
*Ashestiel, the Poet's residence at that time.
*[“ Nathaniel Gow told me that he got the air from an old gentleman, a Mr. Dalrymple of Orangefield, (he thinks,) who had it from a friend in the Western Isles, as an old Highland air.”
The quiet lake, the balmy air,
The hill, the stream, the tower, - the tree, Are they still such as once they were,
Or is the dreary change in me?
Alas, the warp'd and broken board,
How can it bear the painter's dye!
How to the minstrel's skill reply!
To feverish pulse each gale blows chill;
Were barren as this moorland hill.
THE MAID OF ISLA.
AIR — " The Maid of Isla."
WRITTEN FOR MR. GEORGE THOMSON'S SCOTTISH
O, MAID OF ISLA, from the cliff,
That looks on troubled wave and sky,
Contend with ocean gallantly?
And steep'd her leeward deck in foam,
O, Isla's maid, she seeks her home.
O, Isla's maid, yon sea-bird mark,
Against the storm-cloud, lowering dark,
away;Where clouds are dark, and billows rave,
Why to the shelter should she come Of cliff, exposed to wind and wave!
O, maid of Isla, 't is her home.
As breeze and tide to yonder skiff,
Thou’rt adverse to the suit I bring, And cold as is yon wintry cliff,
Where sea-birds close their wearied wing. Yet cold as rock, unkind as wave,
Still, Isla's maid, to thee I come; For in thy love, or in his grave,
Must Allan Vourich find his home.
THE FOR A Y.
SET TO MUSIC BY JOHN WHITEFIELD, MUS. DOC. CAM.
The last of our steers on the board' has been spread,
*[Set to music in Mr. Thomson's Scottish Collection, 1830.]
The rain is descending; the wind rises loud;
Our steeds are impatient! I hear my blithe Gray! There is life in his hoof-clang, and hope in his neigh; Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his mane Shall marshal your march through the darkness and
The drawbridge has dropp'd, the bugle has blown ; One pledge is to quaff yet—then mount and begone! To their honour and peace, that shall rest with the
slain; To their health and their glee, that see Teviot again!
MONKS OF BANGOR'S MARCH.
AIR — “Ymdaith Mionge."
WRITTEN FOR MR. GEORGE THOMSON’S WELSH MELODIES,
ETHELFRID, or OLFRID, King of Northumberland, having be
sieged Chester in 613, and BROCKMAEL, a British Prince, advancing to relieve it, the religious of the neighbouring Monastery of Bangor marched in procession, to pray for the success of their countrymen. But the British being totally defeated, the heathen victor put the monks to the sword, and destroyed their monastery. The tune to which these verses are adapted, is called the Monks' March, and is supposed to have been played at their ill-omened procession.
When the heathen trumpet's clang
O miserere, Domine!
O miserere, Domine!