Imagens das páginas


AIR-Oran an Diog. Scene--A field of battle.-Time of the day, even

ing.–The wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following

song:FAREWELL, thou fair day, thou green earth

and ye skies, Now gay with the bright setting sun; Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear ton

der tiesOur race of existence is run ! Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy

foe! Go, frighten the coward and slave; Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant i but

know, No terrors hast thou to the brave ! Thou strik'st the dull peasant-he sinks in

the dark, Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name ; Thou strik'st the young hero—a glorious

mark ! He falls in the blaze of his fame! In the field of proud honour-our swords in

our hands, Our king and our country to saveWhile victory shines on life's last ebbing

Oh, who would not die with the brave !


TUNE-An Gille dubh ciar dhubh,

STAY, my charmer, can you leave me?
Cruel, cruel to deceive me!
Well you know how much you grieve me ;

Cruel charmer, can you go?

Cruel charmer, can you go?
By my love so ill requited,
By the faith you fondly plighted,
the pangs of lovers slighted,
Do not, do not leave me so !
Do not, do not leave me so !

STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. THICKEST night, o'erhang my dwelling!

Howling tempests, o'er me rave ! Turbid torrents, wintry swelling,

Still surround my lonely cave ! Crystal streamlets gently flowing,

Busy haunts of base mankind, Western breezes softly blowing,

Suit not my distracted mind. In the cause of right engaged,

Wrongs injurious to redress, Honour's war we strongly waged,

But the heavens denied success.

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us,

Not a hope that dare attend : The wide world is all before us

But a world without a friend.


TUNE-A Parcel of Rogues in a Nation.
FAREWEEL to a' our Scottish fame,

Fareweel our ancient glory,
Fareweel even to the Scottish name,

Sae fam'd in martial story.
Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands,

And Tweed rins to the ocean,
To mark where England's province stands

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.
What force or guile could not subdue,

Thro' many warlike ages,
Is wrought now by a coward few,

For hireling traitors' wages.
The English steel we could disdain,

Secure in valour's station ;
But English gold has been our bane-

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.
Oh would, or I had seen the day

That treason thus could fell us, My auld grey head had lien in clay,

Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace !

But pith and power, till my last hour,

l'll mak this declaration ; We're bought and sold for English gold

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.

SWEETEST May, let love inspire thee ;
Take a heart which he desires thee;
As thy constant slave regard it ;
For its faith and truth reward it.
Proof o' shot to birth or money,
Not the wealthy but the bonnie ;
Not high-born, but noble-minded,
In love's silken band can bind it.


TUNE–The Deuks dang o'er my Daddie. The Bairns gat out wi' an unco shout,

The Deuks dang o'er my Daddie, O! The fien’-ma-care, quo' the feirrie auld wife,

He was but a paidlin body, O! He paidles out, an' he paidles in,

An' be paidles late an' early O!
This seven lang years I hae lien by his side,

An' he is but a fusionless Carlie, O!
O, haud your tongue my feirrie auld wife,

O, haud your tongue, now Nansie, O!
I've seen the day, and sae hae ye,

Ye wadna been sae dousie, O!

I've seen the day ye butter'd my brose,

And cuddled me late and early, O! But downa do's come o'er me now,

And, oh! I feel it sairly, O!

THE BANKS O' DOON. TUNEThe Caledonian Hunt's Delight. Ye banks and braes o' bonnie doon,

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ; How can ye chaunt, ye little birds,

And I sae weary fu' o' care ! Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : Thou minds me o' departed joys,

Departed— never to return! Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,

To see the rose and woodbine twine ; And ilka bird sang o' its luve,

And fondly sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree; And my fause luver stole my rose,

But, ah! he left the thorn wi' me.


TUNE-The Banks of Cree. HERE is the glen, and here the bower,

All underneath the birchen shade; The village-bell has toll’d the hour,

Oh, what can stay my lovely maid ?


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