12 Scottish Songs , opus WoO. 156

From the brown crest of Newark its summons extending,
Our signal is waving in smoke and in flame;
And each forester blithe, from hi mountain descending,
Bounds light o'er the heater to join in the game.
Then up with the banner, let forest winds fan her,
She has blaz'd over Ettrick eight ages and more;
In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend her
With heart and with hand, like our fathers of yore.

When the southern invader spread waste and disorder,
At the glance of her crescent he paused and withdrew;
For around them were marshall'd the pride of the border,
The flowers of the Forest, the bands of Buccleuch.
A stripling's weak hand to our revel has borne her,
No mail glove has grasp'd her, no spearmen surround;
But ere a bold foeman should scathe or should scorn her,
A thousand true hearts would be cold on the ground.

And when it is over, we'll drink a blithe measure,
To each laird and each lady that witness'd our fun,
And to every blithe heart that took part in our pleasure,
To the lads that have lost, and the lads that have won.
May the forest still flourish, both borough and landward,
>From the hall of the peer to the herd's ingle-nook;
And huzza! My brave hearts, for Buccleuch and his standard,
For the King and the Country, the Clan and the Duke.

Duncan Gray cam here to woo,
  (Ha, ha, the wooing o't !)
On blythe Yule night when we were fu',
  (Ha, ha, the wooing o't !)
Maggie coost her head fu' high,
Look'd asklent and unco skiegh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abiegh;
  Ha, ha, the wooing o't !

 ... 

Time and Chance are but a tide,
  (Ha, ha, the wooing o't !)
Slighted love is sair to bide,
  (Ha, ha, the wooing o't !)
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie die?
She may gae to - France for me!
  Ha, ha, the wooing o't !

How it comes let Doctors tell
  (Ha, ha, the wooing o't !)
Meg grew sick as he grew heal,
  (Ha, ha, the wooing o't !)
Something in her bosom wrings,
For a relief a sigh she brings;
And O ! her een, they spak sic things!
  Ha, ha, the wooing o't !

Duncan was a lad o' grace,
  (Ha, ha, the wooing o't !)
Maggie's was a piteous case,
  (Ha, ha, the wooing o't !)
Duncan could na be her death,
Swelling Pity smoor'd his Wrath;
Now they're crouse and canty baith,
  Ha, ha, the wooing o't !

Up! Quit thy bower, late wears the hour,
Long have the rooks, caw'd round the tower;
On flower and tree lood hums the bee,
The wilding kid sports merrily.
A day so bright, so fresh, so clear,
Shines sweetly when good fortune's near.

Up! Lady fair, and braid thy hair,
And rouse thee in the breezy air;
The lulling stream, that sooth'd thy dream,
Is dancing in the sunny beam:
And hours so sweet, so bright, so gay,
Wil waft good fortune on its way.

Up! Time will tell, the friar's bell
Its service sound hath chimed well;
The aged crone keeps house alone,
And reapers to the fields are gone:
The active day so boon, so bright,
May bring good fortune ere the night.

Ye shepherds of this pleasant vale,
Where Yarrow glides along,
Forsake your rural toils
And join in my triumphant song!
She grants, she yields one heav'nly smile,
Atones her long delays,
One happy minute crown the pains
Of many suff'ring days.

Refrain:
 Yarrow, how dear thy stream,
 Thy beauteous banks how blest!
 For there  'twas first my loveliest maid,
 A mutual flame confest.

Take, take whate'er of bliss or joy
You fondly fancy mine;
Whate'er of joy or bliss I boast,
Love renders wholly thine.
The woods struck up to the soft gale,
The leaves were seen to move,
The feather'd choir resum'd  their voice,
And music fill'd the grove.

(Refrain)

Cease your funning, force or cunning,
Never shall my heart trepan;
All these sallies are but malice
To seduce my constant man.
'Tis most certain by their flirting
Women oft have envy shown,
Pleas'd to ruin other's wooing
Never happy with their own.

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

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.

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

Chorus
    O lovely Polly Stewart,
    O charming Polly Stewart,
There's not a flower that blooms in May,
    That's half so fair as thou art.

The flower it blaws, it fades and fa's,
    And art can ne'er renew it ;
But Worth and Truth eternal Youth
    Will give to Polly Stewart!

May he who wins thy matchless charm
    Possess a leal a true heart !
To him be given to ken the heav'n
    He gains in Polly Stewart !

Chorus
    O lovely Polly Stewart,
    O charming Polly Stewart.
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May
    That's half so sweet as thou art.

The hero may perish his country to save,
  And he lives in the records of fame;
The sage may the dungeons of tyranny brave --
  Ever honour'd and blest be his name!
But virtue, that silently toils and expires,
  No wreath for the brow to adorn,
That asks but a smile -- but a fond sigh requires --
  O woman! that virtue is thine!

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses,
In you let the minions of luxury rove,
Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love.
Yet Caledonia, belov'd are thy mountains,
Round their white summits the elements war
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Lochnagar.

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd,
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was my plaid.
On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd
As daily I strode thro' the pine cover'd glade.
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright Polar star.
For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story,
Disclos'd by the natives of dark Lochnagar!

Years have roll'd on, Lochnagar, since I left you!
Years must elapse ere I tread you again.
Though nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you,
Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.
England, thy beauties are tame and domestic
To one who has roamed over mountains afar
O! for the crags that are wild and majestic,
The steep frowning glories of dark Lochnagar.

Oh! Tell me, Harper, wherefore flow
Thy wayward notes of wail and woe
Far down the desert of Glencoe,
Where non may list their melody?
Say, harp'st thou to the mist that fly,
Or to the dun deer glancing by,
Or to the eagle, that from high
Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy?

No, not to these, for they have rest,
The mist-wreath has the mountain crest,
The stag his lair, the erne her nest,
Abode of lone security.
But those for whom I pour the lay,
Not wild wood deep, nor mountain grey,
Not this deep dell that shrouds from day
Could screen from treach'rous cruelty.

The hand that mingled in the meal,
At midnight drew the felon steel,
And gave the host's kind breast to feel,
Meed for his hospitality.
The friendly heart which warm'd that hand,
At midnight arm'd it with a brand
That bade destruction's flames expand
Their red and fearful blazonry.

Long have my harp's best notes been gone,
Few are its strings, and faint their tone,
They can but sound in desert lone
Their grey-hair'd master's misery.
Were each grey hair a minstrel string,
Each chord should imprecations fling,
'Till startled Scotland loud should ring,
"Revenge for blood and treachery!"

Should auld acquaintance be forgot
 And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
 And days o'  lang syne!
Chorus:
 For auld lang syne, my dear,
   For auld lang syne,
 We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet
   For auld lang syne.

 ... 

We twa hae run about the braes,
 And pa'd the gowans fine;
But we've wander'd mony a weary foot,
 Sin' auld lang syne.

 ... 

And there 's a hand, my trusty fiere!
 And gie 's a hand o' thine!
And we'll take a right gude-willie-waught,
 For auld lang syne.

Dark was the morn and black the sea,
When my dear laddie left me,
The swelling sails how swift they flee,
Of all my joy bereft me!
Methinks I see him take his stand
On deck so firm and steady;
And distant when he wav'd his hand,
I knew his tartan plaidy.

Alas! how heavy are the days
In absence and in sorrow,
While war and death a thousand ways
Still make me dread tomorrow.
O that ambition were at rest,
While I, the captain's lady,
Should with my soldier be so blest,
All gay in tartan plaidy!