From tyranny's empurpl'd bands; Spicy forests, ever gay, Shading from the burning ray Wildly here, without control, Nature reigns, and rules the whole; Dearest to the feeling soul, She plants the forest, pours the flood; 36 AFTON WATER. FLOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes; Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen, How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; There, oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. Thy crystal stream, Afton, how gently it glides, Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, THE SACRED VOW. TUNE "Allan Water." By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove, While Phoebus sank below Benleddi; * The winds were whisp'ring through the grove, The yellow corn was waving ready: I listen'd to a lover's sang, And thought on youthfu' pleasures monie; And ay the wild-wood echoes rang· O, dearly do I love thee, Annie! O, happy be the woodbine bow'r, Nae nightly bogle make it eerie ; Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, The place and time I met my dearie! Her head upon my throbbing breast, The sacred vow we ne'er should sever The haunt o' Spring's the primrose brae, A mountain west of Strath-Allan, 3000 feet high. But can they melt the glowing heart, Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure? Ir was upon a Lammas night, The time flew by tentless heed, The sky was blue, the wind was still, I kent her heart was a' my ain; I lock'd her in my fond embrace; But, by the moon and stars so bright, That shone that hour so clearly; She ay shall bless that happy night, Amang the rigs o' barley! I hae been blithe wi' comrades dear; Tho' three times doubled fairly, That happy night was worth them a', Amang the rigs o' barley! CHORUS. Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, I'll ne'er forget that happy night, THE LEA-RIG. WHEN, o'er the hill, the eastern star Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo; And owsen frae the furrow'd field, Return sae dowf and weary, 0; Down by the burn, where scented birks Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O. |