AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1747, 30 August 1905, Page 12

AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE.

LOVES WEIRD

AN ATTT.TV SCOTS BALLANT. (BY ROBERT HOGG.) ~~TL The laverock lilts hi® morn-in.’ lay, The celandine eae fair, The first gilt thing that speaks o’ spring Noo lays her bosom bare. The hawthorn an’ the meadow-sweet O** simmer promise gie, As Ailie Gordon’s eager feet Gang linkin'’ owre the lea. O’ she is fain to meet wi’ ane Wha lo’es her mail* than life, Though ’tween her faith er’s boose an’ hia, En’ bitter is the strife. But young herts leugh at auld anas’ quar’le, An’ luve aft loupe elate Whaur kith an’ km unceasin’ strive To eaw the seeds o’ hate, The blythe spring day mak’a Ailie gay, As licht she links alang-; The luve that’s lowein’ in her hert Comes gushin’ oet in sang. axlie’s song. Yestreen this windin’ Walk alang I wan’ert as the sun gaed doun, An’ list the merle® e’enin’ sang Oot-wellin’ sweetly a’ aroun’. , But sad the breeze Socbed ’mang the trees When that sweet sangster ceased his dm; . . , , , Sae gin my Alan’s voice is bushed My hert begins the murmurin’. I markt the queen o’ nicht fu’ prood/ Rise hooly. ’mang her maids o’ licht, Till, lo! ahint a darknin’ clud, Her sonsie face was hid fra-e eicht. Syne a’ aroun’, An’ up an’ doun, In ae black plaid nicht wrapt the lea; Sae grows- my hert as dark an’ drear 'When frae the licht o’ Alan’s e*©Belyve the murky clud gaed by, The mune shone briehtly doun on me; An’ noo yon sun relumes the sky, The birdies sing ance mair wi’ glee, Sae, blythe again Athort the- plain I gae to meet my laddie dear; An, noo my hert maun cease to maen—- . Hoo could it maen an’ Alan near? It’s, oh, that luve wi’ willyart licht Should lure young herts astray; An’ oh! an’ oh I that fortune aft Proves fickle as April day! IT. “Noo, welcome, Ailie, welcome ! For you Fve wearit sair, An’ fain was I tp hear your sang Borne on the momin’ air. It’s waefp’ news I hae to tell, But sin’ I see your face, Your bonnie een/wi’ luve’s bricht sheen, My fears faur frae me chase. Ye ken atween oor faithers lang Has burnt a bitter hate. An’ mine ha® sworn nae son o’ his Sail wi’ a Gordon mate. Or frae that day I’e© beggart be, An’ a’ thae pleasant lan’s I thocht to mak’ ye mistress o’, Sail pass to fremmit ban’s. An’ yours has gi’en his plichted word To vain Sir Hew, the Byde, That gin the mune be worn dune, He’ee dawt ye as bis bride. Oh, what were a’ my faither’s lan’s, His rowth o’ gowdan gain, Gin Bonnie Ailie Gordon, I Should never ca’ my ain? An’ gin ye’re bucklet to the Byde, Wanchansie day for me: It’s faur awa’ frae Birkenshaw My wearie weird I’se dree. But gin your hert wi’ a’ could pairt For vera luve o’ me, The will wad sune discern a WAT Their fell design to flee. Gin sae it be, luve meet wi’ me Faur doun the lanely glen, When mirkest nicht casts gloom owre a’ Lat nane your cornin’ ken. An’ gin the-Byde o’ Birkenshaw Sail wauk’ the morrow morn, He’ll rage to hear true luve can leugh An’ baud his hate in scorn.” • ♦ • v • • • It’s, oh, that luve wi’ willyart licht Should lure young: herts astray; Ah’ oh! an’ oh! that fortune aft Proves fickle as April day. 111. A’ the blythesome birdies Langsyne hae ceased to sing, An’ cuddle cozie i’ their nests Wi’ heid aneath the wing. The celandine an’ daisy Baith steekt their bonnie een, As sune as they saw gloamin grey Come creepin’ owre the green. An’ what-for, Bonnie Ailie, Dae ye seek th-e lanely glen? ’Twere blyther to be liltin’ at Your minnie’s ingle-en’. The storm fiend stalks abrod, Black scowls the lift abonn,, An’ ilka pause the wild win’ mak’et The rain comes eereivin’ doun. Sae unco is the nicht, The hoodit hoolet’s mute;. The dog-fox. coorin’ in hi® dea l Is feart to venture: oet,

An’ what-for, Bonnie Ailie, Dae ye seek the lanely glen ¥ Mair siccar were ye liltin’ at Your ininnifl’g lngle-en’. It’s, oh, that luve wi’ willyart licht Should lure young herts astray; An’ oh! an’ oh! that fortune aft Prove® fickle as April day! IV. r Tfg I owreheard your wily plot To rob me o’ my fair,, An’ when ye’d seek the glen at nicht* I voo’d to follow there. It’s I owreheard' your wily plot To meet her- here the nicht, An’ bear her faur frae Birkenshaw Or e’er the momin’ licht. An’ I hae ta’en a solemn aitk Or she gang wi’ a Graeme, By your vile * han’, unseen by man, I’se dree a daith o’ shame. Sae draw your blade or mair be said An’ let the test be tried,. That’s gin for ocht than ornament It dangles at your side!” It’s he has drawn his guid braidswordfe . An’ wi’ a flashin’ e f **; He daurs Sdr Hew to da© this waret, An’ that richt speedilie. Oh, fierce an’ bitter is the fecht There feughan ’tween the twa, But Alan’s sword o’ mettle keen. Is first the bluid to draw. The w : ly Byde noo stauehera back. He fa’s upo’ his knees; r< Noo yield ye! yield ye!” Alan crieV When, swith! frae ’hint the trees. Twa hired minion® o’ Sir Hew’e Lo-up oot an’, or they’re spied, The tane, stab® Alan i’ the back, '' The tither, 1’ the-side. It’s, oh. that luve wi’ willyart licht, Should lure young herts astray; An’ oh! an’ oh! that fortune aft. Prove® fickle as April day! 1 V. A’ heedless o’ the eerie win’s That screech trees amaig, Wi’ throbbin’ hert an* eager feet Young Ailie speeds alang. An’ noo she nears, the trystin’ - spot, An’ oh, her hert is sair, For peerin’ nun’' on ilka aide Nae Alan sees she there. As doun the glen she daun’ers* on, Her hert gi’ee mony k stoun, When somethin’ dirlin’ ’gainst her fit Gars Ailie to> loot. doun. -Twas Alan’s sword: an’ faint wi’ fear, An’ wild wi’ dreid' dispair The life-blnid oozin’" frae hia woun’e; She fin’s her lover-there. As ’mang tne trees the lichtnin’ flasht, An’ auld aik stricken fell; An’ ae owreheid the thunder craeht, There rase an’ awsome yell. It’s, oh, that luye wi’ willyart licht Should lure young herts astray;. . AV oh! an’ oh! that fortune aft. Proves fickle a® April day ! VI. Gin momin’ dawned owre Birkenshaw, It’s mony a hert did murn, For Bonnie Ailie Gordon they Fand droont i’ the drum lie burn! Gin mornin’ dawned owre Birkenshaw* If® wae was mony a tame; For foully murdert i’ the glen They fand young Alan Graeme. Gin mornin’ dawned owre Birkenshaw, Twa daggers at his side, Crusht deid aneath the fa’en aik, They fand' Sir Hew the Byde. It’s, oh. that luve wi’ willyart licht Should lure* young herts astray; An’ oh! an’ oh~! that fortune aft Prove® fickle as April day.