I am out of humanity's reach, Society, friendship, and love, Divinely bestowed upon man, In the ways of religion and truth, Religion! what treasure untold Ye winds, that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me? O tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see. How fleet is a glance of the mind! And the swift-winged arrows of light. Soon hurries me back to despair. But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest, My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. COMING THROUGH THE RYE. Coming through the rye, poor body, Coming through the rye. HIGHLAND MARY. Ye banks, and braes, and streams around Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, Wi' monie a vow, and lock'd embrace, And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; But oh! fell death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, And closed for ay the sparkling glance, And mould' ring now in silent dust, But still within my bosom's core TO MARY IN HEAVEN. Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget? Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace; Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore, Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, My Mary, dear departed shade! Where is thy blissful place of rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? |