Loneliness

Air - "Hughie Graham."



I.

    O were my love yon lilac fair,
        Wi' purple blossoms to the spring;
    And I, a bird to shelter there,
        When wearied on my little wing!
    How I wad mourn, when it was torn
        By autumn wild, and winter rude!
    But I wad sing on wanton wing,
        When youthfu' May its bloom renewed.

II.

    O gin my love were yon red rose,
        That grows upon the castle wa';
    And I mysel' a drap o' dew,
        Into her bonnie breast to fa'!
    Oh, there beyond expression blest,
        I'd feast on beauty a' the night;
    Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest,
        Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light.

Tune - "Highland's Lament."


I.

    My Harry was a gallant gay,
        Fu' stately strode he on the plain:
    But now he's banish'd far away,
        I'll never see him back again,
                O for him back again!
                    O for him back again!
                I wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land
                    For Highland Harry back again.

II.

    When a' the lave gae to their bed,
        I wander dowie up the glen;
    I set me down and greet my fill,
        And ay I wish him back again.

III.

    O were some villains hangit high.
        And ilka body had their ain!
    Then I might see the joyfu' sight,
        My Highland Harry back again.
                O for him bac...

Thank God!    Those gazers' eyes are gone at last!
The guards are crouching underneath the rock;
The lights are fading in the town below,
Around the cottage which this morn was ours.
Kind sun, to set, and leave us here alone;
Alone upon our crosses with our God;
While all the angels watch us from the stars.
Kind moon, to shine so clear and full on him,
And bathe his limbs in glory, for a sign
Of what awaits him!    Oh look on him, Lord!
Look, and remember how he saved thy lamb!
    Oh listen to me, teacher, husband, love,
Never till now loved utterly!    Oh say,
Say you forgive me!    No - you must not speak:
You said it to me hours ago - long hours!
Now you must rest, and when to-morrow comes
Speak to the people, call them home to God,
A deacon on the Cr...

    Would that such hills and cities round us sang,
    Such vistas of the actual earth and man
    As kindled Titian when his life began;
    Would that this latter Greek could put his gold,
    Wisdom and splendor in our brushes bold
    Till Greece and Venice, children of the sun,
    Become our every-day, and we aspire
    To colors fairer far, and glories higher.

Loue, by sure proofe I may call thee vnkind,
That giu'st no better ear to my iust cries;
Thou whom to me such good turnes should bind,
As I may well recount, but none can prize:
For when, nak'd Boy, thou couldst no harbour finde
In this old world, growne now so too, too wise,
I lodgd thee in my heart, and being blind
By nature borne, I gaue to thee mine eyes;
Mine eyes! my light, my heart, my life, alas!
If so great seruices may scorned be,
Yet let this thought thy Tygrish courage passe,
That I perhaps am somewhat kinne to thee;
Since in thine armes, if learnd fame truth hath spread,
Thou bear'st the Arrow, I the Arrow-head.

    An old man sat beneath a tree
        Alone;
    So still was he
        That, if he had been carved in stone,
    He could not be
        More quiet or more cold:
    He was an ancient man
        More than
    A thousand ages old.

    High diddle doubt, my candle out,
        My little maid is not at home:
    Saddle my hog, and bridle my dog,
        And fetch my little maid home.

If the whole weight of what we think and feel,
Save only far as thought and feeling blend
With action, were as nothing, patriot Friend!
From thy remonstrance would be no appeal;
But to promote and fortify the weal
Of our own Being is her paramount end;
A truth which they alone shall comprehend
Who shun the mischief which they cannot heal.
Peace in these feverish times is sovereign bliss:
Here, with no thirst but what the stream can slake,
And startled only by the rustling brake,
Cool air I breathe; while the unincumbered Mind
By some weak aims at services assigned
To gentle Natures, thanks not Heaven amiss.

Tune - "*The Rose-bud.*"


I.

    A rose-bud by my early walk,
    Adown a corn-enclosed bawk,
    Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,
        All on a dewy morning.
    Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled,
    In a' its crimson glory spread,
    And drooping rich the dewy head,
        It scents the early morning.

II.

    Within the bush, her covert nest
    A little linnet fondly prest,
    The dew sat chilly on her breast
        Sae early in the morning.
    She soon shall see her tender brood,
    The pride, the pleasure o' the wood,
    Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd,
        Awake the early morning.

III.

    So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair,
    On trembling string or vocal air,
    Shall sweetly pay the tender care
        That tends thy early morning.
    So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay,
    Shalt beauteous ...

In truth, O Loue, with what a boyish kind
Thou doest proceed in thy most serious ways,
That when the heau'n to thee his best displayes,
Yet of that best thou leau'st the best behinde!
For, like a childe that some faire booke doth find,
With gilded leaues or colour'd vellum playes,
Or, at the most, on some fine picture stayes,
But neuer heeds the fruit of Writers mind;
So when thou saw'st, in Natures cabinet,
Stella, thou straight lookst babies in her eyes:
In her chekes pit thou didst thy pitfold set,
And in her breast bo-peepe or crouching lies,
Playing and shining in each outward part;
But, fool, seekst not to get into her heart.

    What we most need is men of worth,
    Men o' the forest mark,
    Of lofty height and mighty girth
    And green, unbroken bark.

    Not men whom circumstances
    Have stunted, wasted, sapped,
    Men fearful of fighting chances,
    Clinging to by-paths mapped.

    Holding honor and truth below
    Promotion, place and pelf;
    Weaklings that change as winds do blow,
    Lost in their love of self.

    Tricksters playing a game unfair
    (Count them, sirs, at this hour),
    Ready to dance to maddest air
    Piped by the man in power.

    The need, sore need, of this young land
    Is honest men, good sirs,
    Men as her oak trees tall and grand,
    Staunch as her stalwart firs.

    Steadfast, unswer...

She laid her docile crescent down,
And this mechanic stone
Still states, to dates that have forgot,
The news that she is gone.

So constant to its stolid trust,
The shaft that never knew,
It shames the constancy that fled
Before its emblem flew.

At nine in the morning there passed a church,
At ten there passed me by the sea,
At twelve a town of smoke and smirch,
At two a forest of oak and birch,
And then, on a platform, she:

A radiant stranger, who saw not me.
I queried, "Get out to her do I dare?"
But I kept my seat in my search for a plea,
And the wheels moved on. O could it but be
That I had alighted there!

    1

    This is the year that has no Christmas Day,
    Even the little children must be told
    That something sad is happening far away -
    Or, if you needs must play,
    As children must,
    Play softly children, underneath your breath!
    For over our hearts hangs low the shadow of death,
    Those hearts to you mysteriously old,
    Grim grown-up hearts that ponder night and day
    On the straight lists of broken-hearted dead,
    Black narrow lists no tears can wash away,
    Reading in which one cries out here and here
    And falls into a dream upon a name.
    Be happy softly, children, for a woe
    Is on us, a great woe for little fame, -
    Ah! in the old woods leave the mistletoe,
    And leave the holly for another year,

Morning, evening, noon and night,
“Praise God!; sang Theocrite.

Then to his poor trade he turned,
Whereby the daily meal was earned.

Hard he laboured, long and well;
O’er his work the boy’s curls fell:

But ever, at each period,
He stopped and sang, “Praise God!”

Then back again his curls he threw,
And cheerful turned to work anew.

Said Blaise, the listening monk, “Well done;
“I doubt not thou art heard, my son:

“As well as if thy voice to-day
“Were praising God, the Pope’s great way.

“This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome
“Praises God from Peter’s dome.”

Said Theocrite, “Would God that I
“Might praise him, that great way, and die!”

Night passed, day shone,
And Theocrite was gone.

With ...

"Be with us by day, by night,
    O lover, O friend;
Hold before us thy light
    Unto the end!

"See, all these children of ours
    Starved and ill-clad.
Speak to thy heart's lily-flowers,
    And make them glad!

"Our wives and daughters are here,
    Knowing wrong and shame's touch
Bid them be of good cheer
    Who have loved much.

"And we, we are robbed and oppressed,
    Even as thine were.
Tell us of comfort and rest,
    Banish despair!

"Be with us by day, by night,
    O lover, O friend;
Hold before us thy light
    Unto the end!"

O Ary Scheffer! when beneath thine eye,
Touched with the light that cometh from above,
Grew the sweet picture of the dear Lord's love,
No dream hadst thou that Christian hands would tear
Therefrom the token of His equal care,
And make thy symbol of His truth a lie!
The poor, dumb slave whose shackles fall away
In His compassionate gaze, grubbed smoothly out,
To mar no more the exercise devout
Of sleek oppression kneeling down to pray
Where the great oriel stains the Sabbath day!
Let whoso can before such praying-books
Kneel on his velvet cushion; I, for one,
Would sooner bow, a Parsee, to the sun,
Or tend a prayer-wheel in Thibetar brooks,
Or beat a drum on Yedo's temple-floor.
No falser idol man has bowed before,
In Indian groves or islands of the sea,

When the lids of dusk are falling
    O'er the dreamy eyes of day,
And the whippoorwills are calling,
    And the lesson laid away, -
May Mem'ry soft and tender
    As the prelude of the night,
Bend over you and render
    As tranquil a delight.