Beethoven folksongs arrangements

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25 Irish Songs WoO152

1. No.1 THE RETURN TO ULSTER 2. No.2 SWEET POWER OF SONG! 4. No. 4 THE MORNING AIR PLAYS ON MY Once again, but how chang’d since my Sweet power of Song! That canst impart, FACE wanderings began To lowland swain or mountaineers, The morning air plays on my face, I have heard the deep voice of the Lagan A gladness thrilling trough the heart, And through the grey mist peering, and Bann, A joy so tender and so dear: The soften’d silv’ry sun I trace, And the pines of Clanbrasil resound to the Sweet Power! That on a foreign strand Wood wild, and mountain cheering. roar Canst the rough soldier’s bosom move, Larks aloft are singing, That wearies the echoes of fair Tullamore. With feelings of his native land, Hares from covert springing, Alas! My poor bosom, and why shouldst As gentle as infant’s love. And o’er the fen the wild duck’s brood thou burn! Sweet Power! That makes youthful heads Their early way are winging. With the scenes of my youth can its With thistle, leek, or shamrock crown’d, Bright ev’ry dewy hawthorn shines, raptures return? Nod proudly as the carol sheds Sweet ev’ry herb is growing, Can I live the dear life of delusion again, Its spirit through the social round. To him whose willing heart inclines That flow’d when these echoes first mix’d Sweet Power! That cheer’s the daily toil The way that he is going. with my strain? Of cottage maid, or beldame poor, Fancy shews to me, now, It was then that around me, though poor The ploughman on the furrow’d soil, What will shortly be now, and unknown, Or herdboy on the lonely moor. I’m patting at her door, poor Tray, High spells of mysterious enchantment Or he, by bards the shepherd hight, Who fawns and welcomes me now. were thrown; Who mourns his maiden’s broken tye, How slowly moves the rising latch! The streams were of silver, of diamond the ’Till the sweet plaint, in woe’s despite, How quick my heart is beating. dew, Hath made a bliss of agony. That worldly dame is on the watch The land was an Eden, for fancy was new. Sweet power of Song! Thanks flow to thee To frown upon our meeting. I had heard of our bards, and my soul was From every kind and gentle breast! Fly! Why should I mind her, on fire Let Erin’s Cambria’s minstrels be See, who stands behind her, At the rush of their verse, and the sweep of With Burn’s tuneful spirit blest! Whose eye doth on her trav’ller look their lyre: Joanna Baillie The sweeter and the kinder. To me ‘twas not legend, nor tale to the ear, Joanna Baillie But a vision of noontide, distinguish’d and 3. No.3 ONCE MORE I HAIL THEE clear. Once more I hail thee, thou gloomy 5. No.5 ON THE MASSACRE OF GLENCOE Ultonia’s old heroes awoke at the call; December! Oh! Tell me, Harper, wherefore flow And renew’d the wild pomp of the chace Thy visage so dark, and thy tempest’s Thy wayward notes of wail and woe and the hall; dread roar; Far down the desert of Glencoe, And the standard of Fion flash’d fierce Sad was the parting thou mak’st me Where non may list their melody? from on high, remember, Say, harp’st thou to the mist that fly, Like a burst of the sun when the tempest is My parting with Nancy, ah! Ne’er to meet Or to the dun deer glancing by, nigh. more! Or to the eagle, that from hig It seem’d that the harp of green Erin once Fond lovers parting is sweet painful Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy? more pleasure, No, not to these, for they have rest, Could renew all the glories she boasted of When hope mildly beams on the soft The mist‐wreath has the mountain crest, yore. parting hour; The stag his lair, the erne her nest, Yet why at remembrance, fond heart, But the dire feeling, “O farewell for ever”, Abode of lone security. shouldst thou burn? Is anguish unmingled and agony pure. But those for whom I pour the lay, They were days of delusion, and can not Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, Not wild wood deep, nor mountain grey, return. Until the last leaf of the summer is flown, Not this deep dell that shrouds from day Sir Walter Scott Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, Could screen from treach’rous cruelty.

Since hope is departed and comfort is The hand that mingled in the meal,

gone. At midnight drew the felon steel,

Robert Burns (1759‐1796) 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,

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Few are its strings, and faint their tone, Go, scud it o’er Killarney’s lake, Then for that reason and for a season, They can but sound in desert lone And shake the willows bare; We will be merry before we go. Their grey‐hair’d master’s misery. The water‐elf his sport doth take, A wayworn ranger to joy a stranger, Were each grey hair a minstrel string, Thou’lt find a comrade there. Through every danger my course I’ve run; Each chord should imprecations fling, Will o’ the Wisp skips in the dell, Now hope all ending, and death ’Till startled Scotland loud should ring, The owl hoots on the tree, befriending, “Revenge for blood and treachery!” They hold their nightly vigil well, His last aid sending, my cares are done, And so the while will we. No more a rover, or hapless lover, 6. No.6 WHAT SHALL I DO TO SHEW HOW Then strike we up the rousing glee, My griefs are over, and my glass runs low. MUCH I LOVE HER? And pass the beaker round, Then for that reason and for a season, What shall I do to shew how much I love While ev’ry head right merrily We will be merry before we go. her? Is moving to the sound. John Philpot Curran Thoughts that oppress me, O how can I Joanna Baillie tell? 11. No.11 THOU EMBLEM OF FAITH Will my soft passion be able to move her? 9. No. 9. THE SOLDIER’S DREAM Thou emblem of faith, thou sweet pledge Language is wanting, when loving so well. Our bugles sung truce, for the nightcloud of a passion, Can sighs and tears, in the silence, betoken had low’r’d, That heav’n has ordain’d for an happier Half the distress this fond bosom must And the centinel stars set their watch in than me; know? the sky, On the hand of the fair go resume thy lov’d Or will she melt when a true heart is And thousands had sunk on the ground, station broken, overpow’r’d, And bask in the beam that is lavish’d on Weeping, too late, o’er her lost lover’s The weary to sleep, and the wounded to thee. woe. die. Amd when some past scene thy Is there a grace comes not playful before When reposing that night om my pallet of remembrance recalling, her? straw, Her bosom shall rise to the tear that is Is there a virtue, and not in her train? By the wolfscaring faggot that guarded the falling, Is there a swain but delights to adore her? slain, With the transport of love may no anguish Pains she a heart, but it boasts of her At the dead of the night a sweet vision I combine, chain? saw, But the bliss be all hers, and the suff ’ring Could I believe she’d prevent my undoing, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it all mine. Life’s gayest fancies the hope should again. But ah! Had the ringlet thou lov’st to renew; Methought from the battlefield’s dreadful surround, Or could I think she’d be pleas’d with my array, Had it e’er kiss’d the rose on the cheek of ruin, Far, far I had roam’d on a desolate track; my dear, Death should persuade her my ’Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the What ransom to buy thee could ever be sorrows are true! way found? To the home of my fathers, that welcom’d Or what force from my heart thy 7. NO.7 HIS BOAT COMES ON THE SUNNY me back. possession could tear? TIDE I flew to the pleasant fields travers’d so oft A mourner, a suff ’rer, a wand’rer, a His boat comes on the sunny tide, In life’s morning march, when my bosom stranger, And brightly gleams the flashing oar; was young; In sickness, in sadness, in pain, or in The boatmen carol by his side, I heard my own mountain goats bleating danger, And blithely near the welcome shore, aloft, Next that heart would I wear thee till its How softly Shannon’s currents flow! And knew the sweet strain the cornreapers last pang was o’er, His shadow in the stream I see; sung. Then togheter we’d sink, and I’d part thee The very waters seem to know Then pledg’d we the wine‐cup, and fondly I no more. Dear is the freight they bear to me. swore. John Philpot Curran His eager bound, his hasty tread, From my home and my weeping friends His well‐known voice I’ll shortly hear; never to part; 12. No.12 ENGLISH BULLS And oh, those arms so kindly spread! My little ones kiss’d me a thousand times Och! I have you not heard, Pat, of many a That greetings smile! That manly tear! o’er, joke In other lands, when far away, And my wife sobb’d aloud in her fullness of That’s made by the wits ’gainst your own My love with hope did never twain; heart. country folk; It saw him thus, both night and day, Stay, stay with us, rest, thou art weary and They may talk of our bulls, but it must be To Shannon’s banks return’d again. worn; confest, Joanna Baillie And fain was their warbroken soldier to That, of all the bullmakers, John Bull is the stay; best. 8. No.8 COME DRAW WE ROUND A But sorrow return’d with the drawing of I’m just come from London, their capital CHEERFUL RING morn, town, Come draw we round a cheerful ring And the voice in my dreaming ear melted A fine place it is, faith, I’m sorry to own; And broach the foaming ale, away. For there you can’t shew your sweet face And let the merry maiden sing, Thomas Campbell in the street, The beldame tell her tale: But a Bull is the very first man that you And let the sightless harper sit 10. No.10 THE DESERTER meet. The blazing faggot by; If sadly thinking and spirits sinking Now, I went to Saint Paul’s, ’twas just after And let the jester vent his wit, Could more than drinking my cares my landing. His tricks the urchin try. compose; A great house they’ve built, that has scarce Who shakes the door with angry din; A cure for sorrow from sighs I’d borrow, room to stand in; And would admitted be? And hope tomorrow might end my woes. And there, gramachree! Won’t you think it No, Gossip Winter, snug within, But since in wailing there’s nought availing, a joke, We have no room for thee. And Fate unfailing must strike the blow: The lower I whisper’d, the louder I spoke!

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Then I went to the Tower to see the wild All under the willow, the willow so green. Come then the ruin! beasts, The fair one you love is, you tell me, For nothing shall grieve me, Thinking out of my wits to be frighten’d at untrue, If thou are but left me, least; And here stands poor Shelah, forsaken, like I ask for no more. But these wild beasts I found standing you, Hard is the world, tame on a shelf, All under the willow, the willow so green. It will rudely reprove thee; Not one of the kit half so wild as myself. O take me in sadness to sit by your side, Thy friends will retire, Next I made for the Bank, Sir, for there, I Your anguish to share, and your sorrow When the tempest is near; was told, divide; Now is my season, Were oceans of silver and mountains of I’ll answer each sigh, and I’ll echo each And now will I love thee, gold; groan, And cheer thee when none But I soon found this talk was mere bluster And ’tis dismal, you know, to be dying But thy Mary will cheer. and vapour alone, Come to my arms, For the gold and the silver were all made of All under the willow, the willow so green. Thou art dearer than ever! paper. Then close to each other they sat down to But breathe not a whisper A friend took me into the Parliament sigh, Of sorrow for me: house, Resolving in anguish together to die, Fear shall not reach me, And there sat the Speaker as mum as a All under the willow, the willow so green, Nor misery sever, mouse, But he was so comely, and she was so fair, Thy Mary is worthy For in spite of his name, won’t you think They somehow forgot all their sorrow and Of love and of thee. this a joke tho’, care; William Smyth (1765‐1849) The speaker he whom they all of them And, thinking it better a while to delay, spoke to. They put off their dying, to toy and to play, 17. No.17 IN VAIN TO THIS DESERT MY Of all the strange places I ever was in, All under the willow, the willow so green. FATE I DEPLORE Wasn’t that now the place for a hubbub T. Toms In vain to this desert my fate I deplore, and din. For dark is the wildwood, and bleak is the While some made a bother to keep others 15. No.15 LET BRAIN‐SPINNING SWAINS shore; quiet, Let brain‐spinning swains, in effusions The rude blasts I hear, and the white waves And the rest call’d for “Order” meaning fantastic, I see, just, make a riot. Sing meetings by moonlight in arbour or But nought that gives shelter or confort to Then should you hereafter be told of some grove; me. joke, But Patrick O’Donnelly’s taste is more O love! Thou hast pleasures, and deep By the Englishmen made ’gainst your own plastic, have I lov’d, country folk, All times and all seasons are fitted for love: I love! Thou hast sorrows, and sore Have I Tell this tale, my dear honey, and stoutly At Cork or Killarny, Killala or Blarney, prov’d: protest, At fair, wake, or wedding, my passion must But this bruised heart that now bleeds in That of all the bullmakers, John Bull is the glow: my breast, best. Fair maid, will you but trust to me, I can feel, by its throbbing, will soon be at Anonymous Fondly I’ll love you wherever I go. rest. When driving the cows of old father When clos’d are those eyes, that but open 13. No.13 MUSING ON THE ROARING O’Leary, to weep, OCEAN An angel, yourself, I had still in my eye; With my woes and my wrongs I shall Musing on the roaring ocean When digging potatoes, mud‐spatter’d and peacefully sleep; Which divides my love and me; weary. But the thorn thy inkindness first plac’d in Wearying Heaven in warm devotion, O what did I think on, but you, with a sigh! my heart, For his weal where’er he be; At plough, or haymaking, I’m in an odd Transplanted to thine, shall new anguish Hope and fear’s alternate billow tucking, impart. Yielding late to nature’s law; My bosom heaves high, though my spirits Anne Grant Whispering spirits round my pillow be low: Note: the second verse is by Burns Talk of him that ‘s far awa. Fair maid, will you but trust to me, Ye whom sorrow never wounded, Fondly I’ll love you wherever I go. 18. No.18 THEY BID ME SLIGHT MY Ye who never shed a tear, When first I ’spied your sweet face, I DERMOT DEAR Care‐untroubled, joy‐surrounded, remember, They bid me slight my Dermot dear, Gaudy day to you is dear. That hot summer day, how I shiver’d for For he’s of low degree, Gentle night, do thou befriend me; shame! While I my lady’s maid am here, Downy sleep, the curtain draw; You smil’d when I met you again in And of the quality. Spirits kind, again attend me, December, But if my mother would not grieve, Talk of him that ‘s far away! And then, by the Pow’rs, I was all in a And if the truth were known, Robert Burns (1759‐1796) flame! Wellpleas’d would I this castle leave, Come summer, come winter, in you my And live for him alone. 14. N0.14 DERMOT AND SHELAH thoughts center, Oh, never slight thy Dermot dear, O who sits so sadly, and heaves the fond I doat on you, Judy, from top to he toe: Tho’ he’s of low degree, sigh? Fair maid, will you but trust to me For thou thy lady’s maid art here, Alas! Cried young Dermot, ’tis only poor I, Fondly I’ll love you wherever I go. And of the quality. All under the willow, the willow so green. Sir Alexander Boswell For tho’ thy mother haply grieve My fair one has left me in sorrow to moan, When first the truth were known, So here am I come, just to die alone; 16. No.16 HIDE NOT THY ANGUISH She’ll bid thee not thy Dermot leave, No longer fond love shall my bosom Hide not thy anguish But live for him alone. enslave, Thou must not deceive me, There’s now like thee, ‐ the kind of all, I’m wearing a garland to hang o’er my Thy fortunes have frown’d, At funeral, and at fair; grave, And the struggle is o’er; My lord’s fine man, hat’s in the hall,

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Can ne’er with thee compare. While sickness and hunger the sinews Thy heart is true, thy heart is warm; 22. No.22 FROM GARYONE, MY HAPPY assail, And so is mine to thee; HOME Shall Mackenna, unmov’d, quaff his And would my Lord but give the farm, From Garyone, my happy home, madder of mead; How happy should we be! Full many a weary mile I’ve come, On the haunch of a deer shall Mackenna William Smyth (1765‐1849) To sound of fife and beat of drum, regale, And more shall see it never. While a chief of Tyrconnell is fainting for 20. No.20 FAREWELL BLISS AND FAREWELL ’Twas there I turn’d my wheel so gay, bread? NANCY Could laugh, and dance, and sing, and play, No, enter my dwelling, my feast thou shalt Farewell bliss and farewell Nancy, And wear the circling hours away share, Farewell fleeting joys of fancy; In mirth or peace for ever. On my pillow of rushes thy head shall Hopes and fears and sights that languish But Harry came, a blithesome boy, recline: Now give place to cureless anguish. He told me I was all his joy, And bold is the heart and the hand that will Why did I so fondly love thee? That love was sweet, and ne’er could cloy, dare Why to wearing sorrow bring thee? And he would leave me never: To harm but one hair of a ringlet of thine. Why let causeless slander sting thee? His coat way scarlet tipp’d with blue, Then come to my home, ’tis the house of a Gazing on my precious treasure, With gay cockade and feather too, friend, Lost in reckless dreams of pleasure, A comely lad he was to view; In the green woods of Traugh thou art safe Thy unspotted heart possessing, And won my heart for ever. from thy foes; Grasping at the promis’d blessing, My mother cried, dear Rosa, stay, Six sons of Mackenna thy steps shall Pouring out my soul before thee, Ah! Do not from your parents stray; attend, Living only to adore thee, My father sigh’d, and nought would say, And their six sheathless skeans shall Could I see the tempest brewing? For he could chide me never: protect thy repose. Could I dread the blast of ruin? Yet cruel, I farewell could take, Had we never lov’d so kindly; I left them for my sweetheart’s sake, 25. No.25 OH HARP OF ERIN Had we never lov’d so blindly, And came, ’twas near my heart to break O harp of Erin thou art now laid low, Never met, or never parted, From Garyone for ever. For he the last of all his race is gone: We had ne’er been broken hearted. But poverty is hard to bear, And now no more the minstrel’s verse shall Fare thee well, thou first and fairest, And love is but a summer’s wear, flow, Fare thee well, thou best and dearest; And men deceive us when they swear That sweetly mingled with thy dulcet tone: One fond kiss, and then we sever, They’ll love and leave us never: The hand is cold that with a poet’s fire One farewell, alas! For ever. Now sad I wander through the day, Could sweep in magic change thy sounding Anne Grant No more I laugh, or dance, or play, wire. But mourn the hour I came away How lonely were the minstrel’s latter days, 21. No.21 MORNING A CRUEL TURMOILER From Garyone for ever. How of thy string with strains indignant IS T. Toms rung; Morning a cruel turmoiler is, To desert wilds he pour’d his ancient lays, Banishing ease and repose; 23. No.23 THE WAND’RING GYPSY Or to a shepherd boy his legend sung: Noonday a roaster and broiler is Ach! mir schallt’s dorten so lieblich hervor: The purple heath of ev’ning was his bed, How we pant under ’is nose! Fürchte Gott, fürchte Gott! His shelter from the storm a peasant’s Ev’ning for lover’s soft measures, Ruft mir die Wachtel ins Ohr. shed! Sighing and begging a boon; Sitzend im Grünen, von Halmen umhüllt, The gale that round his urn its odour flings, But the blithe season for pleasures, Mahnt sie dem Horcher am Saatengefild: And waves the flow’rs that o’er it wildly Laughing lies under the moon. Liebe Gott, liebe Gott! wreathe, Er ist so gütig, so mild. Shall thrill along thy few remaining strings, REFRAIN: Wieder bedeutet ihr hüpfender Schlag: And with a mournful chord his requiem Och! Then you rogue Pat O’Flannaghan, Lobe Gott, lobe Gott! breathe. Kegs of the whiskey we’ll tilt, Der dich zu loben vermag. The shepherd boy that paus’d his song to Murtoch, replenish our can again, Siehst du die herrlichen Früchte im Feld? hear, Up with your heart cheering lilt! Nimm es zu Herzen, Bewohner der Welt: Shall chant it o’er his grave, and drop a Myrtles and vines some may prate about, Danke Gott, danke Gott! tear. Bawling in heathenish glee, Der dich ernährt und erhält. David Thomson Stuff I won’t bother my pate about, Schreckt dich im Wetter der Herz der Shamrock and whiskey for me! Natur: Faith, but I own I feel tender; Bitte Gott, bitte Gott! 20 Irish Songs WoO153 Judy, you jill, how I burn! Ruft sie, er schonet die Flur. If she won’t smile, devil mend her! Machen Gefahren der Krieger dir bang: 26. No.1 WHEN EVE’S LAST RAYS Both sides of chops have their turn. Traue Gott, traue Gott! When eve’s last rays in twilight die Sieh’, er verziehet nicht lang. And stars are seen along the sky, REFRAIN Samuel Friedrich Sauter On Liffy’s banks I stray; Fill all your cups till they foam again, And there with fond I regret I gaze, Bubbles must float on the brim; 24. No.24 THE TRAUGH WELCOME Where oft I’ve pass’d the fleeting days He that steals first sneaking home again, Shall a son of O’Donnel be cheerless and With her that’s far away. Daylight is too good for him! cold, When she would sing some lovely strain, While we have goblets to handle, While Mackenna’s wide heart has a faggot How sweet the echoes gave again While we have liquor to fill, to spare; In fainter notes the lay; Mirth, and one spare inch of candle, While O’Donnel is poor shall Mackenna Tho’mute the echoes of the grove, Planets may wink as they will. have gold, In fancy still I hear my love. Or be cloth’d, while a limb of O’Donnel is Though now she’s far away. REFRAIN bare? Her from the stream reflected clear, Sir Alexander Boswell And still it seem’d, when she was near,

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To move with fond delay; When they meet the brave dragoons Ev’ry charm that crowds adore, But though its wave no trace retains, with their long swords boldly riding. All the form divine, diviner Her image in my heart remains, Whack fal de ral la la la la la la la, But the heart is there no more. Tho’ now she’s far away. And Whack fal de ral la la la la la la la. Oh! ‘tis gone, the temper even, David Thomson Sir Walter Scott Careless nature, artless ease! All that makes retirement heaven 27. No.2 NO RICHES FROM HIS SCANTY 29. No.4 SINCE GREYBEARDS INFORM US Pleasing, without toil to please, STORE THAT YOUTH WILL DECAY Hope no more, sweet lark, to cheer her, No riches from his scanty store Since greybeards inform us that youth will Vain to her these echoing skies My lover could impart; decay, Bloom non more, ye violets, near her, He gave a boon I valued more And pleasure’s soft transports glide swiftly Yours are charms she would not prize. He gave me all his heart! away: Ellen! Go where crowds admire thee, His soul sincere, his gen’rous worth, The song, and the dance, and the vine, and Chariots rattle, torches blaze; Might well this bosom move; the fair, Here our dull content would tire thee, And when I ask’d for bliss on earth, Shall banish all sorrow and shield us from Worthless be our village praise. I only meant his love. care. Go! Yet oh, that Thought’s soft season But now for me, in search of gain, Away with your proverbs, your morals, and Ellen’s heart might but restore! From shore to shore he flies: rules, Hard the task ‐ whate’er the reason Why wander, riches to obtain, Your proctors, and doctors, and pedants, Hard the task to love no more. When love is all I prize! and schools: William Smyth (1765‐1849) The frugal meal, the lowly cot, Let’s seize the bright moments while yet in If blest my love with thee! our prime, 32. No.7 O SOOTHE ME, MY LYRE That simple fare, that humble lot, And fast by the forelock catch old father O soothe me, my lyre, with thy tones of Were more than wealth to me. Time. soft sorrow, While he the dang’rous ocean braves, Tho’ spring’s lovely blossoms delight us no O soothe thy sad mistress that sinks in My tears but vainly flow: more, decay, Is pity in the faithless waves Tho’ summer forsake us, and autumn be Fainter today, to be fainter tomorrow, To which I pour my woe? o’er; I fade like the flow’r and am passing away. The night is dark, the waters deep; To cheer us in winter, remembrance can Pale is my cheek, ‐ it was fair as they told Yes, soft the billows roll: bring me ‐ Alas! At every breeze I weep; The pleasures of autumn, and summer, and Who in the dance that but lately had been, The storm is in my soul. spring: Who that had seen me, and now should Helen Maria Williams So when fleeting seasons bring life’s latest behold me, stage, Would think me the Ellen that there he had 28. No.3 THE BRITISH LIGHT DRAGOONS To speak of youth’s frolic shall gladden our seen? ‘Twas a Marechal of France, age: Dear was the world ‐ I had youth, I had and he fain would honour gain, Then seize the bright moments while yet in beauty, And he long’d to take a passing glance our prime, But ‘tis not for life that I heave this sad sigh at Portugal from Spain, And fast by the forelock catch old father ‐ Firm is my soul in its hope and its duty, ‐ With his flying guns this gallant gay, Time. But oh! To be lov’d ‐ then untimely to die. And boasted corps d’armée, T. Toms William Smyth (1765‐1849) O he fear’d not our dragoons with their long swords boldly riding. 30. No.5. I DREAM’D I LAY WHERE 33. No.8 NORAH, THE WITCH OF Whack fal de ral la la la la la la la, FLOW’RS WERE SPRINGING BALAMAGAIRY And Whack fal de ral la la la la la la la. I dream’d I lay where flow’rs were Farewell mirth and hilarity, To Campo Mayor come, springing, Love has my heart in cruel subjection; he had quietly sat down, Gaily in the sunny beam; Ah me! Norah in charity Just a fricassee to pick, I listen’d to the wild birds singing, Spare a fond soul one throb of affection. while his soldiers sack’d the town, By a falling crystal stream. Why, as I pass’d, did I gaze on her When ‘twas peste! Morbleu! Mon General, At once the sky grew black and daring, casement, Hear th’ English bugle call! While through the woods the whirlwinds Alas! With one look all my courage she And behold the light dragoons with rave, shook! their long swords boldly riding. The trees with aged arms were warring, But while I linger’d in moonstruck Whack fal de ral la la la la la la la, Across the swelling drumlie wave. amazement, And Whack fal de ral la la la la la la la. Such was my life’s deceitful morning, Not a smile all the while cheers Three hundred British lads Such the pleasures I enjoy’d; recollection. they made three thousand reel, But long ere noon loud tempest storming, Their hearts were made of English Oak, All my flow’ry bliss destroy’d. REFRAIN: their swords of Sheffield steel, Though fickle fortune has deceiv’d me, Love, love, wins us by treachery, Their horses were in Yorkshire bred, Promised fair, and perform’d but ill, Yet leaves no choice but humble And Beresford them led; Of many a joy and hope bereav’d me, submission; So huzza for brave dragoons with their I bear a heart shall support me still. What spell can conquer this witchery, long swords boldly riding. Robert Burns (1759‐1796) Woman our bane’s the only physician. Whack fal de ral la la la la la la la, Far, far hence tho’ I fly from her, And Whack fal de ral la la la la la la la. 31. No.6 SAD AND LUCKLESS WAS THE Where other shores are kiss’d by the There here’s a health to Wellington, SEASON ocean, to Beresford, to Long, Sad and luckless was the season, Blest powers! Draw but one sigh from her, And a single word of Bonaparte When to court fair Ellen flew, Let her not live thus dead to emotion. before I close my song: Flew from Love, and Peace, and Reason, Yet I must steal one last glance ere I leave The eagles that to fight he brings Worlds to see of promise new. her, Should serve his men with wings, Back she comes ‐ each grace is finer,

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Perhaps in her heart she may grieve when When far from the home of your youth we ‘Tis sunshine at last, come, my Ellen, sit we part; have rang’d, near me, Hope, ah I dread thee, deluding deceiver, How fondly we think of the days that are And twine me these roses, we sorrow no Fair thy cup turn’d up, bitter the potion. past; more; Their image through changes is ever Come taste of my cup, while it sparkles to REFRAIN unchang’d, cheer me, Ah me! Had we the agency Wherever our lot may be cast. The cup that I fill, now the tempest is o’er. Of a kindhearted feat little fairy, I muse on the features of those whom I Oh! Not that my mirth, with unhallow’d Good bye then to the regency, lov’d; intrusion, Norah, the witch of Balamagairy! The farewell of friendship I yet seem to Would thy gentle mind to rude transport Looks she, or speaks she, the lads are all hear: beguile, sighing, The scenes I remember where oft I have But catch from my bowl one fond passing She scatters her spells, and then ev’ry rov’d, illusion, heart swells; The songs that delighted my ear. And crown my gay heart with thy Not a young clown but is pining and dying, In slumbers their music some vision recalls, sympathy’s smile. Ah! The fools, thus she rules Balamagairy. And oft I implore it a moment to stay; Oh! Ever, my love, must I think of that But, ah! Soon the measure in soft cadence season, REFRAIN falls, When, friendless, we mingled our terrors Sir Alexander Boswell I wake, and the sound dies away. and sighs; How sad the reverse, ‐ once I wept but in And how had I failed, in the night of my 34. No.9 THE KISS, DEAR MAID, THY LIP dreams, reason, HAS LEFT The dawn then awoke me to hope and Had comfort not beam’d from thine The kiss, dear maid, thy lip has left, delight; eloquent eyes. Shall never part from mine, Now hope never comes with the morning’s Take the glass that I fill, take the homage I Till happier hours restore the gift gay beams, render: Untainted back to thine. And joy is a phantom of night. No riot shall break the soft dreams of the Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, Oh! Sleep, how enchanting the power of soul; An equal love, may see; thy wand, Around us shall breathe an Elysium more [The]1 tear that from thine eyelid streams More swift are thy pinions than fancy e’er tender, Can weep no change in me. spread; And finer enchantment be waked from my I ask no pledge to make me blest For back o’er the ocean of time they bowl. In gazing when alone; expand, William Smyth (1765‐1849) Nor one memorial for a breast And bring us to scenes that are fled. Whose thoughts are all thine own. Tho’ hope never comes with the morning’s 3. No.14 PADDY O’RAFFERTY By day or night, in weal or woe, gay beams, Paddy O’Rafferty, merry and vigorous, This heart, no longer free, Tho’ long o’er the desert of life I may roam, Laugh’d at his lot, tho’ ‘twas somewhat too [Must]1 bear the love it cannot show, Oh! Let thy soft magic still waft me in rigorous; And silent ache for thee. dreams Poor was his prize from the wheel of life’s George Gordon Noel Byron To all the lov’d scenes of my home. lottery, David Thomson Turning the wheel in old Dennis Keogh’s 35. No.10 OH! THOU HAPLESS SOLDIER pottery. Oh! Thou hapless soldier, CD2 Still he kept turning, and still the clay Left unseen to moulder tapering, Here on the lonely plain. 1. No.12 I’LL PRAISE THE SAINTS Grew a black pot to hold ink for with paper Far thy comrades flying, I’ll praise the saints with early song, in, Lost, abandon’d, dying For now the wars are ended; Sometimes a brown jar to hoard a small Here on the lonely plain. I’ll praise our Lady late and long, pension in, Faint ‐ and none to cheer thee, That has my Love defended. Sometimes, faith, something not worth a Moaning ‐ none to hear thee, Yes, home is come my Patrick dear, word’s mentioning. Dying ‐ and none near thee From me no more to sever; Arrah, quoth Paddy, and so goes the round On this lonely plain. And in his looks, I see it clear: about, No fond tears fall o’er thee, He loves me more than ever. So come those fortunes they make such a No fond hearts deplore thee, He sits our evening fire beside, sound about, Here on the lonely plain. The cabin round surveying, Some in their savealls their thousands are Power! Ambition! Glory! And looks with all a father’s pride, gathering, Read we then your story While near the child is playing. Some from these inkpots great families Here on the lonely plain. Even me he turns to gaze upon, fathering. Some fond maid is sighing As in my maiden beauty, So Mister Keogh I no longer will stay with For the hero lying Before my bloom was worn and gone ye, Here on the lonely plain. By many a toilsome duty. Luck, whispers Paddy, take heart and away Never, hapless soldier, My love, he cries, thou canst not guess, with ye, Fated to behold her, Tho’ kind and tender hearted, Stout are your limbs, a good countenance Left unseen to moulder What I have known of sad distress, carrying, On this lonely plain. Since last from thee I parted. Why should not Paddy catch money by No fond tears fall o’er thee, And little canst thou now suppose marrying? No fond hearts deplore thee, How my poor heart is swelling, Pat took the hint and gambol’d like a Here on the lonely plain. To find myself at evening’s close mountebank, William Smyth (1765‐1849) In this my peaceful dwelling. Small were his dealings with town or with William Smyth (1765‐1849) county bank, 36. No. 11.WHEN FAR FROM THE HOME Short his accounts were, and no need of 2. No.13 ’TIS SUNSHINE AT LAST docqueting,

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Light was his moneybag, easy in pocketing. With young Pat to be wed, O’er all that there I pictur’d see; Up with his bundle, his trusty stick And in vain will we fret, To others but a mimic form, ‐ shouldering, ‘Till we’re crazy. But oh! My life, my love to me. Set them, quoth Pat, stay at home and be And troth! He’s proper fine creature, Or let me sing the song so dear, mouldering; Of mighty good figure and feature, The song that told thy bosom’s fire, But a smooth shilling I’d willingly now And our daughter Kitty, When first, our favorite willows near, wager, Why she’s young and pretty ‐ I bade thee wake thy ready lyre. Paddy O’Rafferty hooks an old dowager. O Darby dear! Is not nature? Yes, o’er and o’er, I’ll sing and play Sir Alexander Boswell They’re tied before this, never fear them, The song beneath those willow trees, So love and good luck ever cheer them, When thou, alas! Art far away, 4. No.15 ‘TIS BUT IN VAIN, FOR NOTHING And faith in a crack And nought but thoughts of thee can THRIVES They’ll be all coming back ‐ please. ‘Tis but in vain, for nothing thrives, By the virgin! ‐ The Piper! Dear sister Arts! Of power divine, Where Dermot has to do, I hear them. To soothe the heart when cheerless found, Ill‐fortune seems, howe’er he strives, And it was, and it is always thus now, And near, with moonlight gleam to shine, His footsteps to pursue! So no longer be making a fuss now: When all the world is darkness round. But one by one, when friends are gone, Cross words and uncivil William Smyth (1765‐1849) Must I forsake him too. Och, pitch to the devil! O poverty! Full sure thou art And give your old woman a buss now. A foe the most unkind; William Smyth (1765‐1849) 12 Irish Songs WoO154 And weary, weary is the heart That feels thee still behind. 7. No.18 NO MORE, MY MARY 10. 1. THE ELFIN FAIRIES But one by one, when friends are gone, No more, my Mary, I sigh for splendour, We fairy elves in secret dells, Must I forsake him too. And riot’s joys no longer prize: All day contrive our magic spells, Next month he sails to find a home On thee I muse in visions tender, Till sable night o’ercast the sky, Beyond the western tide; Or gaze on thy fond eyes. And trough the airy regions fly, And heav’n knows where he means to Oh! Not the sages By Cynthia’s light so clear: roam, With pedant pages, Around the earth ere dawn of day, His houseless head to hide. ‘Tis thy soft smiles On high we win our easy way; But one by one, when friends are gone, Have made me wise. Sometimes the lawns to earth inviting, Must I forsake him too. For life’s delusions of joy had left me; On the velvet turf alighting; Oh! Breathe it not thou passing wind, With sated heart I turn’d to pine So light, so light, I tell it thee alone, A faded world I thought was left me, So light o’er pliant stalks we fleet, My Dermot is not always, kind ‐ Tho’all its pleasures mine. The blade scarce bends beneath our feet, He breaks my heart, I own, O hours of folly! But shakes as if for fear. But one by one, when friends are gone, Of melancholy! Must I forsake him too. How chang’d for bliss, REFRAIN William Smyth (1765‐1849) For love like thine. So light, so light, William Smyth (1765‐1849) So light o’er pliant stalks we fleet, 5. No.16 O MIGHT I BUT MY PATRICK The blade scarce bends beneath our feet, LOVE 8. No.19 JUDY, LOVELY, MATCHLESS But shakes as if for fear. O might I but my Patrick love! CREATURE And if no bus’ness calls from home My mother scolds severely, Judy, lovely, matchless creature, Around the wheeling globe to roam; And tells me I shall wretched prove, Beauty shines thro’ ev’ry feature, We to some flow’ry meadow stray, Because I love him dearly! Like yon light, the pride of nature, And sing and dance the night away, In vain she rates me o’er and o’er Thro’ the morning dew. Around our Fairy Queen. With lessons cold and endless; Come, then, to your Patrick’s dwelling, Then we our mushroom board prepare, It only makes me love him more, All around the buds are swelling, The gather’d sweets of flow’rs our fare, To find him poor and friendless. Ev’ry little linnet’s telling, The dewy nectar round distilling, ‘Tis the time to woo. All our hairbell goblets filling; REFRAIN: Dame o’ Flyn, sweet Judy’s mother, Good night, good night: Oh! Patrick, fly from me, Would you bid me passion smother! Good night we say, then sink to rest Or I am lost for ever Sure I’ll speak as well’s another Upon some lily’s downy breast, Oh! Fortune kinder be, Tho’ poor Pat O’ Doyle. By mortal eyes unseen. Nor thus two Lovers sever. Love within my breast is teazing, What bliss, to me my Patrick cries, Where I dumb ‘twould be amazing; REFRAIN In splendour and in riches? Sooner, when the coals are blazing, Good night, good night: He says, we love too little prize, Bid your pot not boil. Good night we say, then sink to rest That gold too much bewitches! Sir Alexander Boswell Upon some lily’s downy breast, More blest the lark, tho’ hard its doom By mortal eyes unseen. Whene’er the winter rages, 9. NO.20 THY SHIP MUST SAIL, MY HENRY David Thomson Than birds, he says, of finer plume, DEAR That mope in gilded cages. Thy ship must sail, my Henry dear, 11. 2. O HARP OF ERIN Fast comes the day, too soon, too sure; O harp of Erin thou art now laid low, REFRAIN And I, for one long tedious year, For he the last of all his race is gone: William Smyth (1765‐1849) Must learn thy absence to endure. And now no more the minstrel’s verse shall Come let me by my pencil’s aid flow, 6. No.17 COME, DARBY DEAR! Arrest thy image ere it flies; That sweetly mingled with thy dulcet tone: Come, Darby dear! Easy, be easy, And like the fond Corinthian maid, The hand is cold that with a poet’s fire So be sure, and it may not well please ye; Thus win from Art what Fate denies. Could sweep in magic change thy sounding But she’s gone, as I said, And I will hang with fondness warm wire.

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How lonely were the minstrel’s latter days, night and delusion, and darkling confusion the masque and the ball, How of thy string with strains indignant like mists from the river shall vanish for dear scenes of enchantment! rung; ever, I come at your call; To desert wilds he pour’d his ancient lays, and true Irish hearts with warm loyalty let me meet the gay beings Or to a shepherd boy his legend sung: glow; of beauty and song, The purple heath of ev’ning was his bed, and proud exaltation burst forth from the and let Erin’s good humour His shelter from the storm a peasant’s nation be found in the throng. shed! on Patrick’s day in the mornin’. If life be a dream, The gale that round his urn its odour flings, Sir Alexander Boswell ‘tis a pleasant one sure, And waves the flow’s that o’er it wildly and the dream of tonight wreathe, 14. 5. OH! WHO, MY DEAR DERMOT we at least may secure. Shall thrill along thy few remaining strings, Oh! who, my dear Dermot, If life be a bubble, And with a mournful chord his requiem Has dar’d to deceive thee, tho’ better I deem, breathe. And what’s the dishonour let us light up its colours The shepherd boy that paus’d his song to This gold is to buy? by gaiety’s beam. hear, Back, back to thy tempter, Away with cold vapours, Shall chant it o’er his grave, and drop a Or Norah shall leave thee, I pity the mind tear. To hide her in woods, that nothing but dullness David Thomson And in deserts to die. and darkness can find: Tho’ poor, we are honest, give me the kind spirit 12. 3. THE FAREWELL SONG And will not this cheer us, that laughs on its way, O Erin! To thy harp divine Thy sire and thy grandsire and turns thorns into roses, I bid adieu: Have ask’d for no more; and winter to May. Yet let me now its sounds resign And shame with its shadow William Smyth (1765‐1849) With homage due. Has never come near us Thy gen’rous sons, that know not fear, To shut out the sun 16. 7. FROM GARYONE, MY HAPPY HOME Their feelings, genius, fire: From our cabin before. From Garyone, my happy home, O blest be all! But Erin dear, O look at yon lark, Full many a weary mile I’ve come, Be blest thy lyre. Where the sky shines so brightly, To sound of fife and beat of drum, O where the heart that would not bound Say why does it carol And more shall see it never. With answering beat, Its echoing lay: ’Twas there I turn’d my wheel so gay, To hear thy Planxty’s dancing sound, Is’t singing so gaily Could laugh, and dance, and sing, and play, And numbers sweet. And mounting so lightly, And wear the circling hours away And where the heart that sinks not low, Because it finds gold In mirth or peace for ever. And musing melts away, In the dawn of the day? But Harry came, a blithsome boy, To hear thy harp’s deep lonely flow, O Dermot, thy heart is He told me I was all his joy, When mourns the lay. With agony swelling, That love was sweet, and ne’er could No toil can e’er such sweets supply, For once it was honest, cloy, and he would leave me never: No chymic power, And honour its law. His coat way scarlet tipp’d with blue, As brings the bee, with honied thigh, An Irishman thou, and With gay cockade and feather too, From wild heath flower: Have bribes in thy dwelling! A comely lad he was to view; And Science, that could wake the strings Back, back, to thy tempter, And won my heart for ever. To chords of rapture high, Go, Erin go Bragh! My mother cried, dear Rosa, stay, May envy, while she smiling sings William Smyth (1765‐1849) Ah! Do not from your parents stray; Thy minstrelsy. My father sigh’d, and nought would William Smyth (1765‐1849) 15. 6. PUT ROUND THE BRIGHT WINE say, for he could chide me never: Put round the bright wine, Yet cruel, I farewell could take, 13. 4. THE PULSE OF AN IRISHMAN for my bosom is gay, I left them for my sweetheart’s sake, The pulse of an Irishman ever beats the night may have sunshine And came, ’twas near my heart to quicker, as well as the day. break from Garyone for ever. whan war is the story, or love is the theme; Oh welcome the hours! Buit poverty is hard to bear, and place him where bullets fly thicker and when dear visions arise And love is but a summer’s wear, thicker, to melt my kind spirit, And men deceive us when they swear you’ll find him all cowardice scorning. and charm my fond eyes. They’ll love and leave us never: And tho’ a ball should maim poor Darby, When wine to my head Now sad I wander through the day, light at the heart he rallies on: can its wisdom impart, No more I laugh, or dance, or play, “Fortune is cruel, but Norah, my jewel, and love has its promise But mourn the hour I came away is kind, and with smiling, all sorrow to make to my heart; From Garyone for ever. beguiling, when dim in far shade T. Toms shall bid from our cabin all care to be gone, sink the spectres of care, and how they will jig it, and tug at the and I tread a bright world 17. 8. SAVE ME FROM THE GRAVE AND spigot, with a footstep of air. WISE an Patrick’s day in the mornin’.” Yes, mirth is my goddess, Save me from the grave and wise, O blest by the land in the wide western come round me, ye few, For vainly would I tax my spirit, waters, who have wit for her worship, Be the thing that I despise, sweet Erin, lov’d Erin, the pride of my song; I doat upon you: And rival all their stupid merit. still brave be the sons, and still fair be the delighted with life, On! My careless laughing heart, daughters like a swallow on wing, O dearest Fancy let my find thee, thy meads and thy mountains adorning! I catch ev’ry pleasure Let me but from sorrow part, And tho’ the eastern sun seems tardy, the current may bring: And leave this moping behind me. tho’ the pure light of knowledge slow, the feast and the frolic,

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REFRAIN That asks but a smile, but a fond sigh Fair long have blown the breezes, Speak ye wiser than the wise, requires; Oh! When shall I see thee more. Breathe aloud your welcome measure, O woman, that virtue is thine! No longer have I pleasure, Youthful Fancy well can prize William Smyth (1765‐1849) nor at the wake, nor merry fair, The words that counsel love and pleasure. they mock me at the bridal, Is it merry look, or speech, 20. 11. THE SOLDIER IN A FOREIGN LAND and why indeed is Norah there! Or bounding step that thus displeases? The piper who sat on his low mossy seat, I sit as if I heard not Go and graver movements teach And piped to the youngsters so shrill and The Planxty I so lov’d before, To yon light goss’mer on the breezes: so sweet; Fair long have blown the breezes, Go where breathes the opening spring, The far distant hum of the children at play, Oh! When shall I see thee more. And chide the flowers for gaily blowing, And the maiden’s soft carol at the close of Why go to that great city, Tell the linnet not to sing the day. Oh why so far from Norah roam, In jocund May, when noon is glowing. Ah! This was the music delighted my ear, Return to those that love thee, And to think of it now is so sad and so There’s little love so far from home. REFRAIN dear! Thou art not faithless, Dermot, Hence with wisdom, dull and drear, Ah! To listen at case by my own cottage Yet sure the spring is almost o’er, And welcome folly at a venture: door, Fair long have blown the breezes, Cease my song, a sound I hear, Tho the sound of my own native village Oh! When shall I see thee more. The planxty comes, the dancers enter. once more! William Smyth (1765‐1849) In yon throng, if I should see I knew ev’ry dame in her holiday airs, Some gallant, giddy, gay adviser, I knew ev’ry maiden that danc’d at our Who trough life might counsel me, fairs; CD3 He indeed might make me wiser. I knew ev’ry farmer to market we came, and tho dog that ran after him cull’d by its 26 Welsh Songs WoO155 REFRAIN name And who know I now, in this far foreign 1. No.1 SION, THE SON OF EVAN 18. 9. OH! WOULD I WERE BUT THAT land, Hear the shuts of Evan’s son! SWEET LINNET! But the stiff collard sergeant, the See the gallant chase begun! Oh! would I were but that sweet linnet! trimcoated band? Lo the deer affrighted run That I had my appletree too! No kinsman to comfort his own flesh and Up yon mountain’s side. Could sit all the sunny day on it, blood, Check your speed, ye timorous deer, With nothing but singing to do! nor merry ey’d damsel to do my heart Safely rest and cease you fear, I’m weary with toiling and spinning; good. Or boldly on your cliffs appear And Dermot I never can see, To my sight or my ear, no gay cheering And bear your antlers high! Nor sure am I Dermot of winning, doth come, Deep through yonder tangling wood There’s never good luck for poor me! But the flare of our colours, the tuck of our See the felon wolf pursued, I set was my heart all the Sunday drum; Straining hard, and streaming blood, On going to Killaloe fair, The fierce flashing steel of our long Sion’s hounds are nigh! So my father fell ill on the Monday, muster’d file, See the woodland savage grim, And, look ye I could not be there, an the sharp dinning fifer that playeth the Boney, gaunt, and large of limb, And it was not the fair that I minded, while. Furious plunge, and fearless swim For there was I Dermot to see; At night as I keep on the wearisome watch, O’er the water wide. But I’m always before or behind it, The sound of the west wind I greedily Hear the woods resounding far, And there’s never good luck for poor me! catch, Hark the distant din of war, I tried with my sweetest behaviour And the shores of dear Ireland then rise to See th’impatient hunter dare To tell our good priest my distress; my sight, Conway’s swelling tide. And ask’d him to speak in my favour, And my own native valley, that sport of Evan’s son pursues the foe; When Dermot came next to confess. delight. See his ardent visage glow! But he said I was but a beginner, Divided so far by a wide stormy main, Now he speeds the mortal blow, And from love and temptation must flee! Shall I ever return to our valley again? See the savage die! So if love will but make me a sinner, Ah! To listen at ease by my own cottage From dusky den and thorny brake, There’s never good luck for poor me! door, The chiding hounds the echoes wake, Ye Saints, with the Virgin! Believe me, To the sound of my own native village once The forest’s cowering inmates quake, I join with the priest in your praise! more! And triumph rends the air. Contrive but my Dermot to give me, Joanna Baillie Was ever youth like Evan’s son, And I’ll love you the length of my days. Was ever course so nobly run? In vain would they bid me be wiser, 21. 12. HE PROMISED ME AT PARTING Was ever prize so glorious won, And never my Dermot to see, He promised me at parting, ‘Tis Winifred the fair! Bad luck to advice and adviser! To meet me at the springtime here; To hardy deeds and conquering arms, Good luck! To dear Dermot and me! Yet see yon roses blooming, That save the fold from midnight harms, William Smyth (1765‐1849) The blossoms how they disappear. The ancient chief decrees her charms Return my dearest Dermot! The maid beyond compare! 19. 10. THE HERO MAY PERISH Or sure the spring will soon be o’er; Anne Grant The hero may perish his country to save Fair long have blown the breezes, And he lives in the records of fame; Oh! When shall I see thee more. 2. 2. THE MONKS OF BANGOR’S MARCH The sage may the dungeons of tyranny He went to look for treasures, When the heathen trumpet’s clang brave, They’re found they say in London town; Round beleaguer’d Chester rang, Ever honour’d and blest be his name! And ’tis for me he means them, Veiled nun and friar grey But virtue that silently tells and expires, Both golden store and silken gown. March’d from Bangor’s fair abbaye: No wreath, no wreath for the brow to I want but thee, my Dermot! High their holy anthem sounds, adorn, Nor silken gown, nor golden store; Cestria’s vale the hymn rebounds,

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Floating down the sylvan Dee, So far above the worth of gold. How can his eyes, his eyes so much O miserere Domine! No courtly dame in gaudy pride, declare, Weltering amid warriors slain, Shall e’er outshine my lovely bride; His tongue so little say, his tongue so little Spurned by steeds with bloody mane, Then say, my charming maiden say, say? Slaughter’d down by heathen blade, When shall we name the happy day? What recks it that the times are hard, Bangor’s peaceful monks are laid: Try fortune, and be blest‐ Word of parting rest unspoke, SHE Set Hope still cheer and Honour guard, Mass unsung, and bread unbroke; Can golden robes my fancy bind, And Love will do the rest. For their souls for charity, Or ruby chains enslave the mind? Far better load the heart with care, Sing, miserere Domine! Not all the wealth our mountains own, Than waste it with delay; Bangor! o’er the murder wail, Nor orient pearls, nor precious stone, How can his eyes, his eyes so much Long thy ruius told the tale, Can tempt me by their idle shine, declare, Shatter’d tower and broken arch Or buy a heart that’s form’d like mine! His tongue so little say, his tongue so little Long recall’d the woeful march: My choice it is already made, say? On thy shrine no tapers burn, I shun the glare, and court the shade. William Smyth (1765‐1849) Never shall thy priests return; The pilgrim sighs and sings for thee, HE 8. 8. FAREWELL, THOU NOISY TOWN O miserere Domine! Your scorn, proud girl, I well can bear, Farewell, farewell, thou noisy town, Walter Scott There’s many a maid my robes would wear, Thou scene of restless glare; And thank me too; so take your way, Thine hours no real pleasures crown, 3. 3. THE COTTAGE MAID But you’ll repent another day. No peace, no love is there. O Owen, I believe thee kind, How dull thy splendid ev’nings close! And love is surely on thy tongue SHE How sad thy joys to me! But would that I could read thy mind, Go with your robes and gifts of gold Thy hollow smiles, thy rival shows, For hope betrays the maiden young. To those whose hearts are to be sold; And all thy misery. Last night I saw thee loth to part, For me, I have no other pride But welcome to my longing eyes, I watch’d thy looks ‐ so bright the moon But Evan’s love my choice to guide! Dear objects ever new, And know not but my simple heart Anne Hunter My rural cot, you varying skies, Might own too much, or own too soon. Streams, woods, and mountains blue! Unhappy fate, oh doubtful maid! 6. 6. THE FAIR MAID OF MONA With these my humble spirits finds Her tears may fall, her bosom swell. How, my love, coulds hapless doubts o’er Health, liberty, and rest, But even to the desert shade take thee, The silent joys of simple minds, She never must her secret tell. Was my heart so little known? And leisure to be blest. And is it Love, his softer mien? Could’st thou think thy Mary wou’d forsake William Smyth (1765‐1849) And is it Love, his whisper low? thee? And does he much, or nothing mean? Thou wast lov’d, and thou alone! 9. 9. TO THE AEOLIAN HARP Ah! She that loves, how can she know! Cruel Fortune! Rash! Mistaken Lover! Harp of the winds! In airy measure With Owen I the dance have led, May I must I not complain: Thy strings when viewless fingers move, And then I thought that sure he seem’d Never, never may’st thou now discover, Unfolding all thy tuneful treasure, To dance with lighter, livelier tread All that now were known in vain. Thy cadence wild I dearly love. Oh! Was it so, ‐ or have I dream’d? Mine the grief, alas! That knows no Today he goes with merry glee, measure, REFRAIN: And all are going to the fair Thou wast lov’d, and thou alone: The sounds, all earthly sounds excelling, O may I by some ribbon see Thine the life that now can feel no Our wand’ring thoughts to heav’n recall; He thought of one that was not there. pleasure, Now softly sighing, loudly swelling, William Smyth (1765‐1849) Wreck’d my bliss, and lost thine own. Lost in many a dying fall. Sometimes will my lonely sighs accuse Harp of the winds! While, pensive musing, 4. 4. LOVE WITHOUT HOPE thee, I mark thy deep impassion’d strain, Her features speak the warmest heart, Think thee hasty, ... call thee blind; When trees their summer beauty losing, But not for me its ardour glows; Hasty, sure, ... and I for ever lose thee, With yellow leaves bestrew the plain. In that soft blush I have no part But thy heart was not unkind. Thet mingles with her bosom’s snows. William Smyth (1765‐1849) REFRAIN In that dear drop I have no share That trembles in her melting eye; 7. 7. OH LET THE NIGHT MY BLUSHES HIDE Harp of the winds! While, faintly beaming, Nor is my love the tender care Oh let the night my blushes hide, Yon moon hangs o’er the ruined tower, That birds her heave that anxious sigh. While thus my sighs reveal, And flitting shadows dimly gleaming, Not fancy’s happiest hours create What modest love and maiden pride Seem subject to thy magic power. Visions of rapture as divine, Forever would conceal. As the pure bliss which must await What can he mean, how can he bear, REFRAIN The man whose soul is knit to thine. Thus falt’ring to delay; Anne Hunter But ah! Farewell this treacherous theme, How can his eyes, his eyes so much Which, though’tis misery to forego, declare, 10. 10. NED PUGH’S FAREWELL Yields yet of joy the soothing dream, His tongue so little say, his tongue so little To leave my dear girl, my country, and That grief like mine thou ne’er shalt know. say? friends, John Richardson The times are hard, an odious word, And roam o’er the ocean, where toil never I’m wearied with the sound, ends; 5. 5. THE GOLDEN ROBE A cuckoo note, for ever heard To mount the high yards, when the whistle HE Since first the sun went round, shall sound, A golden robe my Love shall wear, Well pleas’d a happier mind I bear, Amidst the wild winds as they bluster And rubies bind her yellow hair; A heart for ever gay; around! A golden robe those limbs enfold,

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My heart aches to think on’t, but still I How cruel are the parents 16. 16. THE DAMSELS OF CARDIGAN must go, Who riches only prize, Fair Tivy how sweet are thy waves gently For duty now calls me to face the proud And to the wealthy booby flowing, foe: Poor woman sacrifice: Thy wild saken woods and green eglantine And so to my Winny I must bid adieu, Meanwhile the hapless daughter bow’rs, In hopes when I’m gone she will think of Has but a choice of strife Thy banks with the blush rose and Ned Pugh. To shun a tyrant father’s hate, amaranth glowing, That still she will think she is near to my Become a wretched wife. While friendship and mirth claim these heart, The rav’ning hawk pursuing, labourless hours. Tho’ far from each other, alas! We must The trembling dove thus flies; part, To shun impelling ruin REFRAIN: That next to my duty, my thoughts she will A while her pinions tries; Yet weak is our vaunt, while something we share, ‘Till of escape despairing, want, My love and my glory both centre in her! No shelter or retreat, More sweet than the pleasures which And should I return with some hits from She trusts the ruthless falconer, prospects can give: Mountseer, And drops beneath his feet. Come, smile, sweet damsels of Cardigan! I know I shall meet with a smile and a tear; Robert Burns (1759‐1796) Love can alone make it blissful to live. Or if I should fall then dear Winny adieu! How sweet was the strain that enliven’d I know when I’m gone you’ll remember 14. 14. THE DREAM the spirit, Ned Pugh. Last night worn with anguish that tortur’d And cheer’d us with numbers so frolic and Anne Hunter my breast, free! When my senses benumb’d I at length sank The poet is absent, be just to his merit! 11. 11. MERCH MEGAN; OR, PEGGY’S to rest; Ah may he in love be mor happy than we! DAUGHTER The passion that waking has ruled o’er my In the white cot where Peggy dwells, mind REFRAIN Her daughter fair the rose excels Still woke in my dreams where it rov’d That round her casement sweetly blows, unconfin’d. How sweet was the circle of friend round a And on the gale its fragrance throws. Methought that my fair one, o’ercome by table, O were she mine, the lovely maid! my pain, Where stately Kilgarran o’erhangs the She soon would leave the lonely shade. Assented at length to reward her fond brown dale, I’d bear her where the beams of morn swain; Where none are unwilling, and few are Should with their brightest rays adorn And soon at the altar she stood by my side, unable, Each budding charm and op’ning grace, To the priest I already “I will” had replied. To sing a wild song, or repeat a wild tale! That moulds her form and decks her face. Her reply I awaited with transport of soul, O were she mine, the lovely maid! When, death to my hopes! did the matin REFRAIN I’d bear her from the lonely shade. bell toll, W. Jones But, should the sultry orb of day I started, awoke, and with horror I found, Too fiercely dart his fervid ray, ‘Twas a dream that maliciously fled at the 17. 17. THE DAIRY HOUSE The rose upon its stalk might die, sound. A spreading hawthorn shades the seat And zephyr o’er its ruins sigh! Based on a text in Welsh by Dafydd ap where I have fix’d my cool retreat; No – I would keep my lovely maid Gwilym (c1340‐c1400) , Y Breuddwyd and when the spring, with sunny show’rs, Secure beneath the friendly shade. expands the leaves, and paints the flow’rs, 15. 15.WHEN MORTALS ALL TO REST a thousands shrubs around it bloom, 12. 12. WAKEN, LORDS AND LADIES GAY RETIRE and fill the air with wild perfume; Waken, lords and ladies gay, When mortals all to rest retire, the light winds through the branches sigh, Upon the mountain dawns the day; o Moon! Thou hear’st my whisp’ring lyre: and limpid rills run tinkling by. All the jolly chase is here. to thee I wake the mournful lay; There, by the twilight dimly seen, With hawk and horses and huntingspear! for sure thou lookst as if thy ray The fairies dance upon the green, The eager hounds in chorus cry, would confort, if it could, And as they glide in airy ring, The swelling horns salute the sky; convey, and happier songs inspire. The beetle plies his drowsy wing; And merrily, merrily mingle they, And I will happier be; And watching’ till the day retires, Then waken, lords and ladies gay! my heart, though late, shall wisdom learn, The glow worm lights her elfin fires; Waken, lords and ladies gay, from love’s delusions free: While Mab, who guards my milky store, The mist has left the mountain gray, my spirit shall in dignant burn, Her cream bowl finds before the door. Brakes are deck’d with diamonds bright, and I with maiden pride will spurn The grateful Fay! she is so kind And streams rejoice in early light. his strange inconstancy. No caterpilar there you find, The foresters have busy been Roll on ye hours! And back restore No creeping thing, nor wasp, nor fly To track the buck in thicket green; the peaceful thoughts I knew before, The lattic’d windows dare come nigh; Now we are come to chant our lay, when smil’d the arts, when charm’d the No long legg’d Spinner nightly weaves Then waken, lords and ladies gay. muse, Her flimsy web beneath the eaves; Louder, louder chant the lay, when morn for me had beauteous hues, But clean and neat, as by a charm, O waken, lords and ladies gay; and evening could her calm diffuse The fairies keep my dairy farm. Tell them Youth and Mirth and Glee my ardent bosom o’er. Anne Hunter Run swift their course as well as we; But Love! Thou fiend of pain! Old Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk, I feel the tears of anguish start 18. 18. SWEET RICHARD As staunch as hound and fleet as hawk? how hard my peace to gain! Yes, thou art chang’d since first we met, O think of this, and rise with day, O fiend and tyrant as thou art! But think not I shall e’er regret, Ye gentle lords and ladies gay! That wring’st from my unwilling heart For never can my heart forget, Walter Scott the sighs that I disdain. The charms that once were thine. William Smyth (1765‐1849) For Marian, well the cause I know 13. 13. HELPLESS WOMAN That stole the luster from thine eye,

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That prov’d thy beauty’s secret foe, And did not Cupid take his aim How my father himself grew a convert at And paled thy cheek’s carnation dye: And rule the world more kindly, last; What made thy health, sweet Marian, fly, Fair maids to find with ev’ry grace, ‘Twas when his foot slip’t as he enter’d the Was anxious care of me. How vain were your endeavour? boat, Yes, o’er my couch I saw thee bend, And we might in another place My Hywel uprais’d him as quick as a The duteous wife, the tender friend, Lead apes, alas! for ever. thought. And each capricious wish attend William Smyth (1765‐1849) He ey’d him with kindness, and gave me a With soft incessant care. kiss, Then trust me, Love, that pallid face 22. 22. CONSTANCY And said, Kate, I should like to have Can boast a sweeter charm for me, Tho’ cruel fate should bid us part grandsons like this; A truer, tenderer, dearer grace As far’s the pole and line, Be happy, my girl, and the treasure now Than blooming health bestow’d on thee: Her dear idea round my heart take, For there thy welltried love I see, Would tenderly entwine. Tho’poor, yet a prize is thy lad of the lake. And read my blessing there. Tho’ mountains frown, and deserts howl, Richard Litwyd Amelia Alderson Opie And oceans roll between; Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, 25. 25. THE PARTING KISS 19. 19. THE VALE OF CLWYD I still would love my Jean. Laura, thy sighs must now no more Think not I’ll leave fair Clwyd’s vale; Robert Burns (1759‐1796) My faltring step detain, To me ‘tis fondly dear! Nor dare I hang thy sorrows o’er, For still its scenes those hours recall 23. 23. THE OLD STRAIN Nor clasp thee thus in vain: When I was blest and Henry here. My pleasant home be side the Dee! Yet while thy bosom heaves that sigh, Long, long, to part our willing hands I often sigh to think of thee, While tears thy cheek bedew, An angry father strove; dear scenes of love and peace and ease, Ah! Think tho’ doom’d from thee to fly, While sorrow prey’d on Henry’s health, how diff ’rent all from scenes like these! My heart speaks no adieu. A sorrow nurs’d by hopeless love. My soldier brave I’ve follow’d far Thee would I bid to check those sighs, Nor was the idea in vain: but sicken at these sights of war. If thine were heard alone How sad thou art, he cried; The nod at church, the conscious smile, Thee would I bid to dry those eyes, But smile again, my darling child; The haste to help me at the stile, But tears are in my own. For thou shalt be thy Henry’s bride. The pleasant walk at summer eve, One last, long kiss and then we part, At that glad sound, on wings of love, The parting kiss at taking leave: Another and adieu! To Henry’s cot I flew: O hours! That once with Tom were past, I cannot aid thy breaking heart, But, ah! The transient flush of joy Dear happy hours! too sweet to last. For mine is breaking too. From his wan cheek too soon withdrew. Yet Love, I know, always cure William Smyth (1765‐1849) Ah! Hopes too false; ah! Fears too true, The ills that we from Love endure; Nor love nor joy could save: And Tom can with a single smile 26. 26. GOOD NIGHT I can no more, ‐ but mark you turf The weariest of my thoughts beguile, Ere yet we slumber seek, With flow’rs o’erspread, ‐ ‘tis Henry’s Dear pleasant home beside the Dee! Blest Queen of Song, descend! grave! I must not ‐ will not ‐ think of thee. Thy shell can sweetest speak Amelia Alderson Opie William Smyth (1765‐1849) Good night to guest and friends. ‘Tis pain, ‘tis pain to part 20. 20. TO THE BLACKBIRD 24. 24. THREE HUNDRED POUNDS For e’en one fleeting night; Sweet warbler of a strain divine, In yonder sung cottage, beneath the cliff ’s But Music’s matchless art What woodland note can equal thine? side, Can turn it to delight. No hermit’s matins hail the day And close to the pebbles that limit the tide, How sweet the farewell glass, More pure than fine from yonder spray. Were five little fellows, a couple’s fond When Music gives it zest! Thy glossy plumes of sable hue, care, How sweet their dreams who pass Retiring from the searching view, Who’d barely enough, not a morsel to From harmony to rest! Protect the like, the leafy screen spare. Dark thoughts that scare repose, Beneath whose shade thou singst unseen. They sometimes were hatless when At Music’s voice give place; Thou to the poet art allied, summer was hot And Fancy lends her rose, Be then thy minstrelsy my pride: And shoeless when winter in snow wrapt Sleeps poppy wreath to grace. Thy poet then, thy song I’ll praise, their cot; William Robert Spencer Thy name shall grace my happiest lays; Yet up grew the boys that no hardship To future lovers shall proclaim could break, Thy worth, thy beauty, and thy fame, And one of the five is my lad of the lake. CD4 And when they hear thee in the grove, My father, o bless him! Few better, or Thy’ll own thee for the bird of love. such, 12. Scottish Songs WoO156 Based on a text in Welsh by Dafydd ap Yet loves his dear money a little too much, Gwilym (c1340‐c1400) Declar’d, if by fancy alone I was sway’d, 1. 1. THE BANNER OF BUCCLEUCH Nor his wealth, nor his blessing, my Howel From the brown crest of Newark its 21. 21. CUPID’S KINDNESS should aid! summons extending, Dear brother! Yes, the nymph you wed I answer’d, my Howel has vigour and Our signal is waving in smoke and in flame; Must be of loveliest feature, health, And each forester blithe, from his The finest heart, the finest head, And these to the children of Nature are mountain descending, The sweetest dearest creature. wealth; Bounds light o’er the heater to join in the This matchless maid go find and woo, Tho’my heart were a dozen, they’d all of game. And heav’n for you preserve her! hem break, Then up with the banner, let forest winds I only ask, where is in you If still he denied me the lad of the lake. fan her, Te merit to deserve her? Now hear how my troubles and sorrows She has blaz’d over Ettrick eight ages and We girls, I own, are just the same, are past, more; Talk folly just as blindly;

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In sport we’ll attend her, in battle defend Ha, ha, the wooing o’t! Women oft have envy shown, her Maggie’s was a piteous case, Pleas’d to ruin other’s wooing With heart and with hand, like our fathers Ha, ha the wooing o’t! Never happy with their own. of yore. Duncan could na be her death, Anonymus We forget each contention of civil Swelling pity smoor’d his wrath; dissension Now they’re crouse and canty baith, 6. 6. HIGHLAND HARRY And hail like our brethren, Hone, Douglas Ha, ha the wooing o’t! My harry was a gallant gay, and Car; Robert Burns (1759‐1796) Fu’ stately strade he on the plain; And Elliot an Pringle in pastime shall But now he’s banish’d far away, mingle, 3. 3. UP! QUIT THY BOWER I’ll never see him back again. As welcome in peace as their fathers in Up! Quit thy bower, late wears the hour, war. Long have the rooks caw’d round the REFRAIN: Then strip, lads, and to it, though sharp be tower; O for him back again, the weather On flower and tree lood hums the bee, O for him back again, And if, by mischance, you should happen to The wilding kid sports merrily. I wad gie a Knockhaspie’s land fall, A day so bright, so fresh, so clear, For Higland Harry back again. There are worse things in life than a tumble Shines sweetly when good fortune’s near; When a’ the lave gae to their bed, on heather, A day so bright, so fresh, so clear, I wander dowly up the glen: And life is it self but a game at football. Shines sweetly when good fortune’s near. I set me down and greet my fill And when it is over, we’ll drink a blithe Up! Lady fair, and braid thy hair, And ay I wish him back again. measure, And rouse thee in the breezy air; To each laird and each lady that witness’d The lulling stream, that sooth’d thy dream, REFRAIN our fun, Is dancing in the sunny beam: And to every blithe heart that took part in And hours so sweet, so bright, so gay, O where some villains hangit high, our pleasure, Will waft good fortune on its way. And ilka body had their ain! To the lads that have lost, and the lads that And hours so sweet, so bright, so gay, Then I might see the joyfu’ sight, have won. Will waft good fortune on its way. My Higland Harry back again. May the forest still flourish, both borough Up! Time will tell, the friar’s bell and landward, Its service sound hath chimed well; REFRAIN From the hall of the peer to the herd’s The aged crone keeps house alone, Robert Burns (1759‐1796) ingle nook; And reapers to the fields are gone: And huzza! My brave hearts, for Buccleuch The active day so boon, so bright, 7. 7. POLLY STEWART and his standard, May bring good fortune ere the night. O lovely Polly Stewart, For the Kind and the Country, the Clan and The active day so boon, so bright, O charming Polly Stewart, the Duke. May bring good fortune ere the night. There’s not a flower that blooms in May, Sir Walter Scott Joanna Baillie That’s half so fair as thou art. The flower it blaws, it fades and fa’s, 2. 2. DUNCAN GRAY 4. 4. YE SHEPHERDS OF THIS PLEASANT And Art can ne’er renew it, Duncan Gray came here to woo, VALE But Worth and Truth eternal Youth Ha, ha, the wooing o’t! Ye shepherds of this pleasant vale, Will give to Polly Stewart! On blythe Yule night when we were fu’, Where Yarrow glides along, May he who wins thy matchless charm Ha, ha, the wooing o’t! Forsake your rural toils Possess a leal a true heart; Maggie coost her head fu’ heigh, And join in my triumphant song! To him be given to ken the heav’n Lock’d asklent and unco skeigh, She grants, she yields one heav’nly smile, He gains in Polly Stewart! Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh, Atones her long delays, O lovely Polly Stewart, Ha, ha the wooing o’t! One happy minute crown the pains O charming Polly Stewart. Duncan fleech’d and Duncan pray’d; Of many suff ’ring days. There’s ne’er a flower that blooms in May Ha, ha, the wooing o’t! That’s half so sweet as thou art. Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, REFRAIN: Robert Burns (1759‐1796) Ha, ha, the wooing o’t! Yarrow, how dear thy stream, Duncan sigh’d baith out and in, Thy beauteous banks how blest! 8. 8. WOMANKIND Grat his een baith bleert and blin’, For there ‘twas first my loveliest maid, The hero may perish his country to save Spake o’lowpon o’er a linn; A mutual flame confest. And he lives in the records of fame; Ha, ha, the wooing o’t! Take, take whate’er of bliss or joy, The sage may the dungeons of tyranny Time and chance are but a tide, You fondly fancy mine; brave, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t! Whate’er of joy or bliss I boast, Ever honour’d and blest be his name! Slighted love is sair to bide, Love renders wholly thine. But virtue that silently toils and expires, Ha, ha, the wooing o’t! The woods struck up to the soft gale, No wreath, no wreath for the brow to Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, The leaves were seen to move, adorn, For a haughty hizzie die? The feather’d choir resum’d their voice, That asks but a smile, but a fond sigh She may gae to France for me! And music fill’d the grove. requires; Ha, ha the wooing o’t! O woman, that virtue is thine! How it comes, let Doctors tell, REFRAIN William Smyth (1765‐1849) Ha, ha the wooing o’t! William Hamilton Meg grew sick as he grew heal, 9. 9. LOCHNAGAR Ha, ha, the wooing o’t! 5. 5. CEASE YOUR FUNNING Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of Something in her bosom wrings, Cease your funning, force or cunning, roses, For relief a sigh she brings; Never shall my heart trepan; In you let the minions of luxury rove, And oh! Her een, they spak sic things! All these sallies are but malice Restore me the rocks where the snowflake Ha, ha the wooing o’t! To seduce my constant man. reposes, Duncan was lad o’ grace, ‘Tis most certain by their flirting

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Though still they are sacred to freedom O Lord, our God, arise, and love. REFRAIN: scatter his enemies And yet Caledonia, belov’d are thy For auld lang syne, my dear, and make them fall! mountains, For auld lang syne, Around their white summits the elements We’ll tak’ a cup o’ kindness yet SOLO war For auld lang syne. Confound their polities, Though cataracts foam ‘stead of smooth And surely you’ll be your pint stowp! frustrate their Knavish tricks, flowing fountains, And surely I’ll be mine! on thee our hopes we fix, I sigh for the valley of dark Lochnagar. And we’ll take a cup o’kindness yet, God save us all! Ah there my young footsteps in infancy For auld lang syne. wander’d, CHORUS My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the REFRAIN Confound their polities, plaid. And there ‘s a hand, my trusty fiere! frustrate their Knavish tricks, On chieftains long perish’d my memory And gie ‘s a hand o’ thine! on thee our hopes we fix, ponder’d And we’ll take a right gudewilliewaught, God save us all! As daily I strode thro’ the pine cover’d For auld lang syne. glade. SOLO I sought not my home till the day’s dying REFRAIN Thy choicest gifts in store, glory Robert Burns (1759‐1796) on him be pleased to pour, Gave place to the rays of the bright Polar long may he reign! star. 12. 12. THE QUAKER’S WIFE For fancy was cheer’d by traditional story, Dark was the morn and black the sea, CHORUS Disclos’d by the natives of dark Lochnagar! When my dear laddie left me, Thy choicest gifts in store, Years have roll’d on, Lochnagar, since I left The swelling sails how swift they flee, on him be pleased to pour, you! Of all my joy bereft me! long may he reign! Years must elapse ere I tread you again. Methinks I see him take his stand Though nature of verdure and flow’rs has On deck so firm and steady; SOLO bereft you, And distant when he wav’d his hand, May he defend our laws, Yet still are you dearer than Albion’s plain. I knew his tartan plaidy. and ever give us cause, England, thy beauties are tame and Alas! how heavy are the days to sing, with heart and voice, domestic In absence and in sorrow, God save the King! To one who has rov’d on the mountains While war and death a thousand ways afar Still make me dread tomorrow. CHORUS O! for the crags that are wild and majestic, O that ambition were at rest, May he defend our laws, The steep frowning glories of dark While I, the captain’s lady, and ever give us cause, Lochnagar! Should with my soldier be so blest, to sing, with heart and voice, Lord George Gordon Noel Byron All gay in tartan plaidy! God save the King! Anonymous Henry Carey 10. 10. GLENCOE Oh! Tell us, Harper, where fore flow 14. No. 2 THE SOLDIER Irish Thy wayward notes of wail and woe 12 Songs of Various Nationality Then, Soldier! Come fill high the wine, Far down the desert of Glencoe, For we reck not of tomorrow, Where non may list their melody? 13. No.1 GOD SAVE THE KING! English Be ours to day and we resign Say, harp’st thou to the mists that fly, SOLO All the rest to the fools of sorrow. Or to the dun deer glancing by, God save our Lord the King! Gay be the hour till we beat to arms And to the eagle, that from high Long live our gracious King! Then camrade Death or Glory; Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy? God save the King! ‘Tis Victory in all her charms, The hand that mingled in the meal, Or ‘tis Fame in the worlds bright story. At midnight drew the felon steel, CHORUS ‘Tis you ‘tis I that my meet the ball; And gave the host’s kind breast to feel, God save our Lord the King! And me it better pleases Meed for his hospitality. Long live our gracious King! In battle, with the brave to fall, The friendly hearth which warm’d that God save the King! Than to die of dull diseases; hand, Driveller to e in my fireside chair At midnight arm’d it with a brand SOLO With saws and tales unheeded; That bade destruction’s flames expand Send him victorious, A tottering thing of aches and care Their red and fearful blazonry. happy and glorious, No longer lov’d nor needed. Long have my harp’s best notes been gone, long to reign over us, But thou oh dark is thy flowing hair, Few are its strings, and faint their tone, God save the King! And thine eye with fire is streaming, They can but sound in desert lone And o’er thy cheek, thy looks, thine air, Their grey hair’d master’s misery. CHORUS Sits health in triumph beaming. Were each grey hair a minstrel string, Send him victorious, Thou, brother soldier fill the wine, Each chord should imprecations fling, happy and glorious, Fill high to love ad beauty; ’Till startled Scotland loud should ring, long to reign over us, Love, friendship honour, all are thine, “Revenge for blood and treachery!” God save the King! Thy country and thy duty. Sir Walter Scott William Smyth (1765‐1849) SOLO 11. 11. AULD LANG SYNE O Lord, our God, arise, 15. No.3 O CHARLIE IS MY DARLING Should auld acquaintance be forgot scatter his enemies Scottish And never brought to mind? and make them fall! REFRAIN: Should auld acquaintance be forgot, O Charlie is my darling, And auld lang syne! CHORUS My darling, my darling;

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O Charlie is my darling, To hear the good, the great, the fair, O for him back again, The young chevalier. rich notes of rapture pealing. I wad gie a Knockhaspie’s land That high the choral burden bear, For Highland Harry back again! ‘Twas on a Monday morning, their names with honours hailing. When birds were singing clear; John Dovaston CHORUS: That Charlie to the Highlands came, O for him back again, The gallant chevalier. 19. No.7 SINCE ALL THY VOWS, FALSE O for him back again, MAID Irish I wad gie a Knockhaspie’s land REFRAIN Since all thy vows, false maid, are blown to For Highland Harry back again! air, When a’ the lave gae to their bed, And many a gallant Scottish chief, And my poor heart betray’d to sad despair, I wander dowly up ghe glen; Came round their Prince to cheer, Into some wilderness, I set me down and greet my fill, That Charlie was their darling, My grief I will express And ay I wish him back again. The young chevalier. And thy hard heartedness, O cruel Fair! REFRAIN REFRAIN Some gloomy place I’ll find, some doleful shade, CHORUS They wou’d na bide to chase the roes Where neither sun nor wind e’er entrance O were some villains hangit high, Or start the nountain deer; had: And ilka body had their ain! But aff they march’d wi’ Charlie, Into that hollow cave, Then I might see the joyfu’ sight, The galant chevalier. There will I sigh and rave, My Highland’s Harry back again. Because thou dost behave REFRAIN So faithlessly. REFRAIN And when a ghost I am, I’ll visit thee: 16. No.4 O SANCTISSIMA! Sicilian O thou deceitful dame, whose cruelty CHORUS O Sanctissima, Has kill’d the kindest heart Robert Burns (1759‐1796) O piissima That e’er felt Cupid’s dart, Dulcis Virgo Maria! And never can desert 22. No.10 SIR JOHNNIE COPE Mater amata, From loving thee. Sir Johnnie Cope trod the North right far, Intemerata, Yet ne’er a rebel he came n’ar; Ora! Ora pro nobis! 20. No.8 BY THE SIDE OF THE SHANNON Until he landed at Dunbar, Irish Right early in a morning. 17 No.5 THE MILLER OF THE DEE English By the side of the Shannon was laid a Cope wrote a challenge from Dunbar, There was a jolly miller once, young Lover, Come meet me, Charlie, if you dare, Lived on the river Dee; “I hate this dull river” he fretfully cried; If it be not by the chance of war, He work’d and sang from morn till night, “Yon tempest is coming this willow my I’ll gi’e you a merry morning. No lark more blythe than he; cover, And this the burden of his song How sultry the air, not a zephyr”, he sigh’d. REFRAIN: For ever used to be: “Go, bee! Get along why so idly remaining, Hey Johnnie Cope are ye wauking yet, I care for nobody, no not I, For here are no roses thou trouble some Or are ye sleeping, I wou’d wit. If nobody cares for me! thing! Make haste and get up, for the drums do The reason why he was so blithe, Peace nightingale! Peace to that ditty beat, He once did thus unfold: complaining O fie, Cope rise in the morning! The bread I eat my hands have earn’d; Oh can it be thus that these nightingales When Charlie look’d the letter on, I covet no man’s gold; sing?” He drew his sword the scabbard from: I do not fear next quarter day; But now a light form with a smile archly “So heav’n restore me to my own, In debt to none I be, playing, I’ll meet you, Cope, in the morning.” I care for nobody, no, not I, All beaming in beauty, before him But when he saw the Higland lads, If nobody cares for me. appear’d. Wi’ tartan trews and white cockades, So let us his example take, “ O Ellen!” he cried, “why thus strangely Wi’ swords and guns, and rungs, and And be from malice free; delaying, gauds, Let every one his neighbour serve, My dearest, my Ellen, what have I not Johnnie, he could win in the morning. As served he’d like to be. fear’d.” And merrily push the can about, And then so majestic the Shannon came REFRAIN And drink and sing with glee: flowing, O’ then he flew into Dunbar, If nobody cares a doit for us, The bee flew unchided the blossoms crying for a Man o’War, Why not a doit care we. among, he thought to have passed for a rustic tar, The sky was serene, and the zephyrs soft and gotten away in the morning. 18. No.6 A HEALTH TO THE BRAVE blowing, Says Lord Mark‐Carr ye are nae blate, A health to the brave, in fields afar And oh! Howe enchanting the nightingale’s tae bring us the news o’ yer ain defeat, sweet Freedom’s foes assailing; song! I think you deserve the back o’ the gate, And high the choral burden bear, William Smyth (1765‐1849) get out o’my sight this morning. their names with honours hailing. What meed awaits, the fallen brave? 21. No.9 HIGHLANDER’S LAMENT Scottish REFRAIN A nation’s tears to dew them, My Harry was a gallant gay, Old Jacobite song and bars the blooming flowers to weave, Fu’stately strade he on the plain; and virgin hands to strew them. But now he’s banish’d far away, 23. No.11 THE WANDERING MINSTREL But what their meed to whom returns I’ll never see him back again. Irish in triumph’s car is granted? “I am bow’d down, with years, Beside their comrade’s laurel’d urn, REFRAIN: And fast flow my tears, to see the olive planted. O for him back again, But I wander, I mourn not,

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Your pity to win: De sto tanto so’ dormir, Wegen enka steh ich nur als Schildwach ’Tis not age, want, or care, E g’ho fato da insolente, allhier, I could poverty bear No m’ho avuto da pentir; Und kommt auch der Teufel, so weiß ich ’Tis the shame of my heart Perchè, oh Dio, che bele cosse kein Wort, That is breaking within.” Che g’ho dito, e che g’ho fato! So nehmts ihn beim Hörndel und prügelts No, mai più tanto beato ihn fort, CHORUS: Ai me zorni no son stà. Weg’n meiner, weg’n unser, weg’n Herrn, Thou are bow’d down with years, Antonio Lamberti der verrückt, And fast flow thy tears, Gebts acht, daß die Trud enk nicht gar zu But why dost thou wander stark druckt. No pity to win? CD5 Wenzel Müller Were it age, were it care, *Trud: a blood‐sucking female ghost. We could soothe, we could share, 23 Songs of Various Nationality WoO158a But what is the shame 4. No.4 WANN I IN DER FRÜH AUFSTEH Thy sad bosom within? 1. No.1 RIDDER STIGS RUNER Danish Tyrolean “Oh, if thou should’st hear Ridder Stig tjener i Kongens Gaard, Wann i in der Früh aufsteh, From splendour’s high sphere Fruer og Jomfruer de børste hans Haar. Ai, ei, ei, a, The sorrow, the tale, Jomfruer, I giver os Orlov Und zu meiner Schwaigrin* geh, Which these notes may convey! Ridder Stig skjaenker for Bord i Stove, Ai, ei, ei, a, Think, think of past hours, Liden Kirstin laa hanom hart I Hove. Und da nim i glei mei Sichel Thy dear native bowers, Jomfruer, I giver os Orlov Und da gras’ i mit mein Michel*, And turn not, my love, “De ter syv Aar siden, jeg Runer nam, Und da gras’ ma in den Klee From thy father away.” Aften skall jeg prøve, om de due kann.“ Ei, ai, ei, a. Jomfruer, I giver os Orlov Schwaigrin, du bist mein Freud, CHORUS: Ai, ei, ei, a, ’Tis from Erin so dear 2. No.2 ARIE DES HEINZENFELD “HORCH Wann i’s Vieh auf d’Alma treib, The lay that we hear, AUF, MEIN LIEBCHEN” Ai, ei, ei, a, Then welcome tha minstrel Aus das neue sonntagskind Und aft’n tun ma’s Kuhla malcha*, And welcome the lay: Horch auf, mein Liebchen, ich bin es, gugu, Und da krieg’n ma gute Kalma*, But where are the bowers, ach, gar ein herrliches Mädchen bist du. Treib’n mirs abi zu den Stier And what are the hours, Ach komm nur, mein Kindchen, komm nur Ei, ai, ei, a. And where is the daughter heidipritsch, Wann der Holda* blast ins Horn, That wander’d away? oh komm doch, du kleiner, du herziger Ai, ei, ei, a, “What peace thou hast known, Gritsch. Treib’n ma’s Kuhla von den Barn* Since from me thou hast flown! Ich bin’s, wenn mich nicht dein Öhrlein Ai, ei, ei, a, And, Eveleen, think erkennt, Tun ma’s Kuhla von den Barn*, But how wretched am I! Bring dir ein Ständchen auf mein Ai, ei, ei, a, O let me but live Instrument, Tun ma’s Kuhla abi streicha, Thy fault to forgive, Ach Herzchen, ach Herzchen, ach willigst Und die Milli zamma seicha, Again let me love thee, du ein, Aft’n treib’n mir’s hin zum Bach, And bless thee, and die!” So sollst du in Hinkunft mein Maultrommel Ei, ai, ei, a. sein. Schwaigrin, bring den Sechta* her, CHORUS: Wenzel Müller Ai, ei, ei, a, O cease then thy song, ’s Kuhla gibt uns Milli mehr, She has languished too long; 3. No.3 ARIE DES HAUSMEISTERS “WEGEN Ai, ei, ei, a, She hoped not thy smile MEINER BLEIB D’FRÄULA” Kann ma’s Kuhla nimmer malcha, Of forgiveness to see: Aus das neue sonntagskind Aft’n krieg’n ma gute Kalma, She sunk at the word, Wegen meiner bleib d’Fräula nur da ganz ’s Kuhla gibt uns Milli mehr, Thy voice when she heard allein, Ei, ai, ei, a. And she lives (if she lives) Wenn d’Trud1 nicht hereinkommt, so will But for virtue and thee. ich was sein, * Notes: William Smyth (1765‐1849) Sie ist gar ein wildes, ein garstiges Tier, Schwaigrin = Sennerin Und wenn sie zu mir kommt, so sutzelts an Michel = der zweite Kuhbub 24. No.12 LA GONDOLETTA Venetian mir, Kuhla malcha = Kuh melken La Biondina in gondoletta Drum geh ich Keller und sauf mich voll Kalma = Kälbchen L’altra sera g’ho menà: Muts, Holda = Hüter Dal piaser la povereta, So finds doch, wanns her kommt, an mir Barn = Futterkrippe La s’ha in bota indormenzà. noch was Guts. Sechta = Eimer La dormiva su sto brazzo, Wegen meiner kanns kommen, weg’n Mi ogni tanto la svegiava, meiner kanns gehen, 5. No.5 I BIN A TYROLER BUA Ma la barca che ninava Wegen meiner bleib d’Fräula nur immer da I bin a Tyroler Bua, La tornava a indormenzar. stehn, Bin alleweil wohlauf, Contemplando fisso fisso So ist doch der Hausmeister aus aller Auf d’Madel geh i sakrisch zua, Le fatezze del mio ben, Schuld, Trag Teppich zum Verkauf, Quel viseto cussi slisso, So hab die Lisettel und d’Fräula Geduld, Da seh i Madeln schön und rar, Quela boca e quel bel sen; Weg’n meiner kann g’schehen, weg’n Bald blond, bald schwarz, bald weiß und Me sentiva drento in peto meiner was will, braun, Una smania, un missiamento, Wenn d’Trud kommt, so halt sich die Fräula So aner gäb i all mei War, Una spezie de contento fein still. An Troler is nit z’traun, Che no so come spiegar! Wegen meiner, weg’n unser, weg’n allen, I bin a Tyroler Bua, M’ho stufà po’, finalmente, wegen dir, Bin alleweil wohlauf,

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Auf d’Madel geh i sakrisch zu, Drum denk an den Tyroler Bua Seu lindos olhos Trag Teppich zum Verkauf, Und hält dein weite Goschen zu. Mal que me viram Kommt aber ane Alte her, From Jakob Haibel’s Singspiel “Der Crucis feriram Die noch die Liebeshitzen kriegt, Tyroler Wastl” Meu coração. Da nehm i glei’ an Teppich her Se Amor protege Und werf ’n ihr übers G’sicht; 8. No.8 IH MAG DI NIT NEHMA, DU A chama nossa, Tyroler sind halt allweil klug, TÖPPETER HECHT Tyrolean Talvez se mova Wann’s kommen in a fremdes Land, Ih mag di nit nehma, A compaixão. Der jungen Madeln kriegens g’nug, Du töppeter Hecht, Vir pode um dia, Mit Alten war’s a Schand. Du darfst mir nit komma, Dia d’encanto, Drum Alte, laß dir d’Lieb vergehn, Du warst mir viel z’schlecht; Qu’em que o pranto Koan T’roler kriegst du dran, Und du willst mei Mann sein, Vertido em vão. Man darf nur deine Falten sehn, Du städtishcer Aff, Se Amor alenta Der Teufel lauft davon. Was fallt dir nit no ein, Esta esperança Ein altes Weib ist ohne Kraft, Du törischer Laff. Em paz descança I bitt dich, schau und gib an Rua, Du talketer Jodel*, Meu coraçao. Bist wie a Ruben ohne Saft, Z’was brauchest a Weib, Geh hoam und deck di zua, Du hast ja* a Sodel 13. No.13 IM WALDE SIND VIELE Und sollt di d’Liab noch often plag’n, Koan Saft mehr in Leib; MÜCKLEIN GEBOREN Russian So folg halt meinem Rat, Bist sü‚ wie a Brue Vo lesochke komarochkov mnogo urodilos’, I kann dir gar nichts bessers sag’n: Und sü‚ wie a Vogel, Ja ves’ma, krasna devica, tomu udivilas’. Brauch often s’kalte Bad; was tat a Weib mit dir. Tomu mlada udivilas’, chto mnogo Das ziagt die Hitzen sauber aus, Der Tölpel von Passau urodilos’, Stirbst a nua, was liegt denn dran, Ist dein Contrase, * Mne nel’zja, krasnoj device, v lesu Sonst kommst du noch ins Narrenhaus, Du kierst* wie ein Spansau, poguljati. Um’ne Alte kraht koa Hahn, Jetzt heb di und geh, Ya, devica, vzradovalas’, k okoshku Drum mag di koa Tyroler Bua, Hör auf mit dein Raunzen, brosalas’, Bist allweil übel auf, Das sag ich dir frue, Okoshechko otkryvala, molodca vpuskala. Drum halt die alte Goschen zua, I steck dir a Faunzen, * Vo lesochke komarochkov mnogo urodilos’, Sonst schlag i di brav drauf. Du talketer Bue. Ja ves’ma, krasna devica, tomu udivilas’. Tirolean *NOTE 14. No.14 ACH BÄCHLEIN, BÄCHLEIN, 6. No.6 A MADEL, JA A MADEL Talketer Jodel = törichter Geselle KÜHLE WASSER Russian / German A Madel, ja a Madel Du hast ja = sowieso Akh, recen’ki, recen’ki Ist als wie a Fahn, Contrase = Abbild Ach Bächlein, Bächlein, kühle Wasser, Die jede Luft bewegt, Du kierst = Du quiekst ihr Mädchen, Mädchen, ihr bringt uns zum Viel ärger als a Wetterhahn, Faunzen = Ohrfeige Weinen, Der sich vom Winde dreht. bringt zum Weinen den Freund und zum Das hat mir mei Vater gesagt, 9. No.9 OJ, OJ UPIIEM SIE W KARCZMIE Klagen, Mei Vater, der war ein g’scheider Mann, Polish dass mein Liebster nicht entflieht, weil ihn Wenn oaner etwa Zweifel trägt, Oj, oj upiiem si´ karzcmie, jemand hält. Der schau nur den Anton an; wyspaiem si´ w sieni, Sein erstes Liebchen hielt ihn an der Hand, Der Anton, der sagt engs, A °ydki psia juchi, die zweite, die küsste ihn auf den Mund, Und gar auf ein Haar, Kobiaike mi wzieni. die dritte, die liebe, hat ihn zur Tür Der Anton is’ koa Narr. Oj, oj °ydzi kanalije begleitet. Die Madeln, die führen Oddajcie kobiaiOj, cem˝e bede nosiui Drei grüne Gärten hat mein Liebster. Uns an der Nase her, Krupy na korzaike Im ersten ruft der Kuckuck kläglich, Und kommt nur ein andrer Wind, im zweiten singt die Lerche laut, So gilt a der schönste Bua schon a nichts 10. No.10 POSZIA BABA PO POPIOL Polish im dritten grünt der Birnbaum froh. mehr, Poszia baba po popiói Ein Mädchen unterm Birnbaum sitzt, Wie halt Madeln sind. i diabei je utopii. sie weint und stöhnt und sinkt zum Boden Drum hörts mein Rat, und gebts guad acht, Ni popioiu nieder, Es ward, wenn Mondschein ist, ni baby, sie reibt die Tränen mit dem Tüchlein weg Schon mancher zum Schafskopf g’macht, Tylko z baby und blickt den Liebsten heimlich öfters an. der sich nichts träumen ließ; dwa szaby. Jeder weiß, dem Liebsten geht es gar nicht A Madel, a Madel gut, Ist als wie a Fahn, 11. No.11 YO NO QUIERO EMBARCARME ja, auch die Jalousien sind nun zu, Die jede Luft bewegt, Yo no quiero embarcarme, mit schwarzem Flor die Fenster behangen. Viel ärger als a Wetterhahn, Pues es muy cierto Es gibt kein Begrüßen mehr am Fenster, Der sich vom Winde dreht, Que no cuantos návegan kein Kristallglas mehr mit transparenten Das weiß ich auf ein Haar, Llegan al puerto. Blumen. Der Anton ist kein Narr. Amor que tiene juicio Eine silberne Karaffe tranken wir mit dem Tirolean Poco amor tiene, Liebsten, Que el amor al más cuerdo tranken, tranken, hielten inne, küssten uns. 7. No.7 WER SOLCHE BUEMA AFIPACKT Loco le vuelve. Tyrolean Siempre rabio por verte 15. No.15 UNSERE MÄDCHEN GINGEN IN Wer solche Buema afipackt Y si te veo DEN WALD Russian Die steckt ma auf an Hut, Nunca puedo decirte Kak poshli nashi podruzhki v les po jagody A Bua, der kani Federn tragt, Lo que te quiero. guljat’, Der hat ka Federn tragt, Veju, veju, veju, veju, v les po jagody Der hat ka Feur im blut. 12. No.12 SEU LINDOS OLHOS Portugese guljat’.

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Po chjornuju chernichku, po krasnuju Han Nestli dran gebaut. Édes kinos emlékezet, zemljanichku, Auf ä Wiesli bin i gegange, Oh Badacson’ szürete! Veju, veju, veju, veju, po krasnu Nach die Imbli hab i geschaut: Mulatságos gyülekezet, zemljanichku. Han gesummet, han gebrummet, Oh rabságom’ kezdete! Oni jagod ne nabrali, podruzhen’ku Han Zelli gebaut. Ott tudtammeg, kicsoda Ö, poterjali, In ä Gärtli hab i gestanne, ’s micsoda a’ szere lem; Veju, veju, veju, veju, podruzhen’ku Lugt die Schmetterlinge an; Amor’ nyila miként sebzö, poterjali. Han gesoge, han gepfloge, ’s mi az édes gyötrelem. Kak poshli nashi podruzhki v les po jagody Gar zu schön hans getan. Nem ugy mentem, a’ mint jöttem; guljat’, Da kommt nu mei Hänsli, dem zeig i Nagy külömbség volt Köztem, Veju, veju, veju, veju, v les po jagody Gar so froh, wie sie es mache, A’ ki valék az elött guljat’. Und mir lache, mir lache ’S a’ ki lettem, látván Öt. Und machens a so. Magyar Szüretölö Ének 16. No.16 AIR COSAQUE: SCHÖNE MINKA, (Hungarian grape‐picking song) ICH MUSS SCHEIDEN 19. No.19 BOLERO A SOLO: UNA PALOMA Schöne Minka, ich muß scheiden! BLANCA 23. No.23 CANZONETTA VENEZIANA DA Ach, du fühltest nicht das Leiden, Una paloma blanca BRAVA CATINA Fern auf freudenlosen Heiden Como la nieve Da brava Catina, mostréve bonina, Fern zu sein von dir! Me ha picado en el pecho, Mostréve pietosa, cortese con mi. Finster wird der Tag mir scheinen, Como me duele! Un baso dimando, nol xè un contrabando, Einsam wird’ ich gehen und weinen; Mas allá de la vida no xè una gran cosa, diséme de sì. Auf den Bergen, in den Hainen He de quererte, Ruf ’ ich, Minka, dir! Que amor está en el alma, Nie werd’ ich von dir mich wenden; Y esa no muere. 24. AIR DE COLIN, FROM LE DEVIN DU Mit den Lippen, mit den Händen Dicen que sueño es muerte, VILLAGE WoO158/C NO.2 Werd’ ich Grüße zu dir senden Mas yo lo niego, Non, non, Colette n’est point trompeuse, Von entfernten Höhn! Pues cuando duermo, vivo, Elle m’a promis sa foi. Mancher Mond wird noch vergehen, Cuando no, muero. Peut – elle être l’amoureuse Ehe wir uns wiedersehen: D’un autre berger que moi? Ach, vernimm mein letztes Flehen: 20. No.20 BOLERO A DUE: COMO LA Jean‐Jacques Rousseau Bleib mir treu und schön! MARIPOSA Spanish Du, mein Olis, mich verlassen? Como la mariposa soy, Meine Wange wird erblassen! Que por verte, From 7 Brittish Songs WoO158b Alle Freuden werd’ ich hassen, En la luz de tus ojos Die sich freundlich nahn! Busco mi muerte. 26. No.1 ADIEU, MY LOV’D HARP Irish Ach, den Nächten und den Tagen Yo no sé si me quieres Adieu my lov’d harp, for no more shall the Werd’ ich meinen Kummer klagen; O si me olvidas, vale, Alle Lüfte werd’ ich fragen, Sólo sé que yo vivo, Reecho thy notes as they float on the gale; Ob sie Olis sahn! Cuando me miras. No more melting pity shall sigh o’er thy Tief verstummen meine Lieder, String; Meine Augen schlag’ ich nieder, 21. No.21 TIRANILLA ESPAÑOLA Or love to thy tremblings so tenderly sing. Aber seh’ ich einst dich wieder, La Tirana se embarca When battle’s fell strife launch’d its Dann wird’s anders sein! De Cádiz para Marsella, thunders afar, Ob auch all die frischen Farben En alta mar la apresó And valour’s dark brow wore the honours Deiner Jugendblüte starben: Una balandra francesa. of war; Ja, mit Wunden und mit Narben ’Twas thou breath’d the fame of the hero Bist du, Süßer, mein! REFRAIN: around, Christoph August Tiedge (Ukrainian) Ay Tirana retírate a España And young emulation was wak’d by the Ay Tirana huye los rigores, sound. 17. No.17 VAGGVISA Swedish Ay Triana de la Convención! Ye daughters of Erin soon comes the sad Lilla Carl, sov sött i frid, Sí, sí, Tiranilla day, Du får tids nog vaka, Sí, sí picarilla When over the turf where I sleep ye shall Tids nog se vår onda tid Porque si te agaran, say: Och hennes galla smaka. Porque si te pillan, “Oh! Still is the song we repaid with a tear, Världen är en sorgeö, And silent the string that delighted the Bäst man andas, skall man dö Pondrán tu cabeza en la guillotina. ear.” Och bli mull tillbaka. La tirana que de amor muere Så är med vår livstid fatt, No llame muerte al morir, 27. No.3 OH ONO CHRI! (OH WAS NOT I A Och så försvinna åren: Que es morir por quien se adora WEARY WIGHT!) Scottish Bäst man andas godt och gladt, El más dichoso vivir. Oh was not I a weary wight! Oh ono chri! Så ligger man på båren. Maid, Wife and Widow in one night, oh Lilla charles skall tänka så, REFRAIN ono chri! När han se de blommer små, When in my soft and yelding arms, oh ono Som bepryda våren. Grande pena es el morir, chri! Carl S.Michael Bellman (1740‐1795) Pero yo no la sintiera, When most I thought him free from harms, Pues quien vive como yo, oh ono chri! 18. No.18 AN Ä BERGLI BIN I GESÄSSE De alegría le sirviera. Even at the dead time of the night, oh ono Swiss REFRAIN chri, An ä Bergli bin i gesässe, They broke my bower, and flew my Knight, Nach die Vögli hab i geschaut: 22. No.22 ÉDES KINOS EMLÉKEZET oh ono chri, Han gesunge, han gepfiffe, Hungarian

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With ae lock of his jet black hair, oh ono Wi’ tears blinding their ee, Ambition would disown chri, Before I’ll break my true love’s heart, The world’s imperial crown, I’ll tye my heart for ever mair, oh ono chri! I’ll lay me down and die. Ev’n av’rice would deny Nae fly‐tongued youth, or flattering swain, For I have pledg’d my virgin troth, His worshipp’d deity, oh ono chri, Brave Arthur’s fate to share, And feel thro’every vein love’s raptures Shall e’er untie this knot again, oh ono chri, And he has gi’en to me his heart roll. Thine still, dear youth, that heart shall be, Wi’ a’ its virtues rare. oh ono chri, The mind whose every wish is pure, 4. No.4 BONNIE WEE THING Scottish Nor pant for aught save heaven and thee, Far dearer is to me, Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing, oh ono chri! And e’er I’m forced to break my faith, Lovely wee thing, was thou mine! I’ll lay me down and die. I wad wear thee in my bosom, 28. No.4 RED GLEAMS THE SUN ON YON So trust me when I swear to thee, Least my jewel I should tine. HILL TAP Scottish By a’ that is on high, Wishfully I look and languish Red gleams the sun on yon hill tap, Thoug, ye had a’ this warld’s gear, In that bonnie face of thine; The dew sits on the gowan; My heart ye couldna buy; And my heart it stounds wi’anguish Deep murmurs thro’ her glens the spey, For langest life can ne’er repay, Lest my wee thing be na mine! Around Kinrara rowan. The love he bears to me; Wit and grace and love and beauty, Where art thou, fairest, kindest lass? And e’er I’m forced to break my troth, In ae constellation shine! Alas! wert thou but near me, I’ll lay me down and die. To adore thee is my duty, Thy gentle soul, thy melting eye, Goddess o’this soul o’mine! Would ever, ever cheer me. Bonnie wee thing, etc. The lavr’ock sings among the clouds, CD6 The lambs they sport so cheery, 5. No.5 FROM THEE, ELIZA, I MUST GO And I sit weeping by the birk, From 6 Songs of Various Nationality Scottish O where art thou, my dearie? WoO158c Trio Aft may I meet the morning dew, 1. No.1 WHEN MY HERO IN COURT From thee, Eliza, I must go, Lang greet till I be weary, APPEARS And from my native shore; Thou canna, winna, gentle maid, from The Beggar’s Opera The cruel fates between us throw Thou canna be my dearie. When my Hero in court appears, A boundless ocean’s roar. And stands arraign’d for his life; But boundless oceans, roaring wide, 29. No.5 ERIN! O ERIN! Then think of poor Polly’s tears; Between my love and me, Like the bright lamp that lay on Kildare’s For ah! Poor Polly’s his wife. They never, never can divide holly fane, Like the sailor he holds up his hand, My heart and soul from thee. And burn’d thro’long ages of darkness and Distrest on the dashing wave. Farewell, farewell Eliza dear storm, To die a dry death at land The maid that I adore! Is the heart that sorrows have frow’d on in Is a bad a wat’ry grave: A boding voice is in mine ear, vain, And alas, poor Polly! We part to meet no more! Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and Alack and a‐well a day! But the last throb that leaves my heart, warm. Before I was in love, While Death stands victor by, Erin, O Erin, thus bright thro’ the tears Oh, ev’ry month was May. That throb, Eliza, is thy part, Of a long night of bondage thy spirit And thine that latest sigh! appears. 2. No.2 AIR DE COLIN Robert Burns (1759‐1796) The nations have fallen, and thou still art Non, non, Colette n’est point trompeuse, young, Elle m’a promis sa foi. Thy sun is but rising, when others are set; Peut – elle être l’amoureuse 25 Scottisch Songs Op.108 And tho’ slav’ry’s cloud o’er thy morning D’un autre berger que moi? hath hung, Jean Baptiste Rousseau 6. No.1 MUSIC, LOVE AND WINE The full noon of freedom shall beam round from Le devin du village O let me Music hear thee yet. Night and Day! Erin, O Erin, tho’ long in the shade, 3. No.3 MARK YONDER POMP OF COSTLY Let the voice and let the Lyre Thy star will shine out when the proudest FASHION Scottish Dissolve my heart, my spirit’s fire; shall fade. Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, Music and I ask no more, Unchill’d by the rain, and unwak’d by the Round the wealthy titled bride: Night or Day! wind, But when compar’d with real passion, Hence with colder world, The lily lies sleeping thro’ winter’s cold Poor is all that princely pride. Hence, Adieu! hour, What are the showy treasures? Give me. Give me but the while, Till the hand of Spring her dark chain What are the noisy pleasures? The brighter heav’n of Ellen’s smile, unbind, The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art: Love and then I ask no more, And daylight and liberty bless the young The polish’d jewel’s blaze, Oh, would you? flow’r. May draw the wond’ring gaze, Hence with this world of care Erin, O Erin, thy winter is past, And courtly grandeur bright I say too; And the hope that liv’d thro’it shall The fancy may delight, Give me but the blissful dream, blossom at last. But never, never can come near the heart. That mingles in the goblet’s gleam, But, did you see my dearest Phillis Wine and then I ask no more, 30. No.6 O MARY, YE’S BE CLAD IN SILK In simplicity’s array, What say you? Scottish Lovely as yon sweet opening flowers is, Music may gladden Wine, O Mary, ye’s be clad in silk, Shrinking from the gaze of day: What say you? And diamonds in your hair, O then the heart alarming, Tendrils of the laughing Vine Gin ye’ll consent to be my bride And all resistless charming, Around the Myrtle well may twine, Nor think on Arthur mair. In love’s delightful fetters Both may grace the Lyre divine, Oh, wha wad wear a silken gown, She chains the willing soul! What say you?

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What if we all agree, And a spell in my wine; Dim, dim is my eye, What say you? And sunshine in Autumn, As the dew‐drop once clear, I will list the Lyre with thee, Tho’ passing too soon, Pale, pale is my cheek, And he shall dream of Love like me, Is sweeter and dearer Ever wet with the tear Brighter than the wine shall be, Than sunshine in June. And heavily heaves What say you? William Smyth (1765‐1849) This soft breast, once so gay, For William, my true love, REFRAIN 9. No.4 THE MAID OF ISLA My William away! Love, Music, wine agree, O, Maid of Isla, from the cliff, Sad. Sad was the hour, True, true, true! That looks on troubled wave and sky, When he bade me adieu, Round then round the glass, the glee, Dost thou not see yon little skiff While he hung on my bosom, And Ellen in our toast shall be! Contend with ocean gallantly? And vow’d to be true; Music, wine and Love agree, Now beating ‘gainst the breeze and surge, My heart it seem’d bursting True, true, true! And steep’d her leeward deck in foam, On that fatal day, William Smyth (1765‐1849) Why does she war unequal urge? ‐ When the fast less’ning sail O, Isla’s maid, she seeks her home. Bore my William away. 7. No.2 SUNSET O, Isla’s maid, yon sea‐bird mark, Lament him, ye fair, The sun upon the Weirdlaw hill, Her white wing gleams through mist and And lament him, ye brave, in Ettrick’s vale is sinking sweet; spray, Though unshrouded he lies, the westland wind is hush and still, Against the storm‐cloud, lowering dark, And the sea is his grave; the lake lies sleeping at my feet. As to the rock she wheels away; ‐ For the kind and true hearted, Yet not the landscape to mine eyes Where clouds are dark and billows rave, The gallant and gay, bears those bright hues that once it bore; Why to the shelter should she come Lament, for my William’s tho’ Ev’ning, with her richest dye, Of cliff, exposed to wind and wave? ‐ For ever away. flames o’er the hills on Ettrick’s shore. O, maid of Isla, ‘tis her home. possibly by William Browne (1591‐ With listless look along the plain, As breeze and tide to yonder skiff, c1643) I see Tweed’s silver current glide, Thou’rt adverse to the suit I bring, And coldly mark the holy fane And cold as is yon wintry cliff, 12. No.7 BONNIE, LADDIE, HIGHLAND Of Melrose rise in ruin’d pride. Where sea‐birds close their wearied wing. LADDIE The quiet lake, the balmy air, Yet cold as rock, unkind as wave, Where got ye siller moon, The hill , the stream, the tower, the tree, Still, Isla’s maid, to thee I come; Bonny laddie, highland laddie, Are they still such as once they were, For in thy love, or in his grave, Glinting braw your belt aboon, Or is the dreary change in me? Must Allan Vourich find his home. Bonny laddie, highland laddie? Alas, the warp’d and broken board, Sir Walter Scott (1771‐1832) Belted plaid and bonnet blue, How can it bear the painter’s dye? Bonny laddie, highland laddie, The harp of strain’d and tuneless chord, 10. No.5 THE SWEETEST LAD WAS JAMIE Have ye been at Waterloo, How to the minstrel’s skill reply? The sweetest lad was Jamie, Bonny laddie, highland laddie? To aching eyes each landscape lowers, The sweetest, the dearest, Weels me on your tartan trews, To feverish pulse each gale blows chill: And well did Jamie love me, Bonny laddie, highland laddie, And Araby’s or Eden’s bowers, And not a fault has he. Tell me, tell me a’ the news, Were barren as this moorland hill. Yet one he had, it spoke his praise, Bonny laddie, highland laddie! Sir Walter Scott (1771‐1832) He knew not woman’s wish to teaze, Saw ye Boney by the way, He knew not all our silly ways, Bonny laddie, highland laddie, 8. No.3 O SWEET WERE THE HOURS Alas! The woe to me! Blucher wi’ his beard sae grey, O sweet were the hours For though I loved my Jamie, Bonny laddie, highland laddie? When in mirth’s frolic throng Sincerely and dearly, Or, the doure and deadly Duke, I led up the revels Yet often when he wooed me, Bonny laddie, highland laddie, With dance and with song; I held my head on high; Scatt’ring Frenchmen wi’his look, When brisk from the fountain And huffed and toss’d with saucy air, Bonny laddie, highland laddie! And bright as the day, And danc’d with Donald at the fair, Some say he the day may rue; My spirits o’erflow’d And plac’d his ribbon in my hair Bonny laddie, highland laddie, And ran sparkling away! And Jamie! Pass’d him by. You can till gin this be true, Wine! Wine! Wine! So when the war‐pipes sounded, Bonny laddie, highland laddie. Come bring me wine to cheer me, Dear Jamie, he left me, Would ye tell me gin ye ken, Friend of my heart! And now some other maiden Bonny laddie, highland laddie, Come pledge me hig! Will Jamie turn to woo. Aught o’ Donald and his men, Wine! Till the dreams of youth My heart will break, and well it may, Bonny laddie, highland laddie? Again are near me, For who would word of pity say Tell me o’my kilted Clan, Why must they leave me, To her who threw a heart away, Bonny laddie, highland laddie, Tell me, why? So faithful and so true! Gin they fought, or gin they ran, Return, ye sweet hours! Oh! Knew he how I loved him, Bonny laddie, highland laddie? Once again let me see Sincerely and dearly; James Hogg (1770‐1835) Your airly light forms And I would fly to meet him! Of enchantment and glee; Oh! Happy were the day! 13. No.8 THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS Come, give an old friend, Some kind, kind friend, oh, come between, The lovely lass o’ Inverness, While he crowns his gay glass, And tell him of my alter’d mien! Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; A nod as you part That Jeanie has not Jeanie been For e’en and morn she cries, Alas! And a smile as you pass Since Jeamie went away. And ay the saut tear blins her e’e: I cannot forget you, William Smyth (1765‐1849) Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, I would not resign, A waefu’ day it was to me; There’s health in my pulse, 11. No.6 DIM, DIM IS MY EYE For there I lost my father dear,

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My father dear and brethren three! There’s a cheer in thy voice, and thy Oh, shame on the dolt would be going, Their winding‐sheet the bludy clay, bounding step, Nor tarry for one bottle more! Their graves are growing green to see; And there’s bliss in thy blithesome ee. And by them lies the dearest lad But, oh, how my heart was tried, Willy, REFRAIN: That ever blest a woman’s e’e! For little I thought to see, Come fill ... Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, That the lad who won the lasses all, My Heart, let me but lighten, A bludy man I trow thou be; Would ever be won by me. And Life, let me but brighten, For mony a heart thou has made sair Adown this path we came, Willy, And Care, let me but frighten. That ne’er did wrang to thine or thee! T’was just at this hour of eve; Robert Burns (1759‐1796) And will he or will he not, I thought, He’ll fly us with one bottle more! My fluttering heart relieve? By day, tho’ he confound me, 14. No.9 BEHOLD MY LOVE HOW GREEN So oft as he paused, as we saunter’d on, When friends at night have found me, THE GROVES T’was fear and hope and fear; There is Paradise around me Behold, my love, how green the groves, But here at the wood, as we parting stood, But let me have one bottle more! The primrose banks how fair; T’was rapture his vows to hear! The balmy gales awake the flowers, Ah vows so soft thy vows, Willy! REFRAIN And wave thy flowing hair. Who would not, like me, be proud! The lav’rock shuns the palace gay, Sweet lark! with thy soaring echoing song, So now, here’s to the Lasses! And o’er the cottage sings: Come down from thy rosy cloud. See, see, while the toast passes, For Nature smiles as sweet, I ween, Come down to thy nest, and tell thy mate, How it lights up beaming glasses! To Shepherds as to Kings. But tell thy mate alone, Encore to the Lasses, encore. Let minstrels sweep the skilfu’ string, Thou hast seen a maid, whose heart of We’ll toast the welcome greeting In lordly lighted ha’: love, Of hearts in union beating. The Shepherd stops his simple reed, Is merry and light as thine own. And oh! For our next merry meeting, Blythe in the birken shaw. William Smyth (1765‐1849) Huzza! Then for one bottle more! The Princely revel may survey Our rustic dance wi’ scorn; 17. No.12 O, HAD MY FATE BEEN JOIN’D REFRAIN But are their hearts as light as ours, WITH THINE William Smyth (1765‐1849) Beneath the milk‐white thorn! Oh, had my fate been join’d with thine, The shepherd, in the flowery glen; As once this pledge appear’d a token; 19. No.14 O, HOW CAN I BE BLITHE AND In shepherd’s phrase, will woo: These follies had not then been mine, GLAD The courtier tells a finer tale, For then my peace had not been broken! O how can I be blythe and glad, But is his heart as true! To thee these early faults I owe, Or how can I gang brisk and braw, These wild‐wood flowers I’ve pu’d, to deck To thee the wise and old reproving; When the bonie lad that I lo’e best That spotless breast o’ thine: They know my sins, but do not know Is o’er the hills and far awa! The courtiers’ gems may witness love, ‘Twas thine to break the bands of loving. It’s no the frosty winter wind, But, ’tis na love like mine. For once my soul like thine was pure, It’s no the driving drift and snaw; Robert Burns (1759‐1796) And all its rising fires could smother; But aye the tear comes in my e’e, But now thy vows no more endure, To think on him that’s far awa. 15. No.10 SYMPATHY Bestow’d by thee upon another! My father pat me frae his door, Why, Julia, say, that pensive mien? Perhaps his peace I could destroy My friends they hae disown’d me a’; I heard thy bosom sighing; And spoil the blisses that await him; But I hae ane will tak my part, How quickly on they cheek is seen Yet let my rival smile in joy The bonie lad that’s far awa. The blush, as quickly flying! For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. A pair o’ glooves he bought to me, Why mark I, in thy soften’d eye, Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, And silken snoods he gae me twa; Once with light spirit beaming, For nature seem’d to smile before thee: And I will wear them for his sake, A silent tear I know not why, And once my heart abhorr’d deceit, The bonie lad that’s far awa. In trem’lous luster gleaming? For then it beat but to adore thee, O weary Winter soon will pass, Come, tell me all thy bosom pain: But now I ask for other joys, And Spring will cleed the birken shaw; Perhaps some faithless lover? To think would drive my soul to madness. And my young babie will be born, Nay, droop non thus, the rose with rain In thoughtless throngs and empty noise, And he’ll be hame that’s far awa. May sink, yet still recover. I conquer half my bosom’s sadness. Robert Burns (1759‐1796) , “The Bonie O Julia! My words recall, Yet even in these a thought will steal, Lad That’s Far Awa”, 1788 My thoughts too rud’ly guide me; In spite of every vain endeavour; I see afresh thy sorrows fall, And fields might pity what I feel, 20. No.15 O CRUEL WAS MY FATHER They seem to plead and chide me. To know that thou art lost for ever. O cruel was my father I too, the secret would have known, Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid, That shut the door on me. That makes existence languish, ‘Twere vain and fruitless to forget thee: And cruel was my mother Links to the soul on thought alone, Nor hope, nor memory, yeld their aid, That such a thing could see. And that, a thought of anguish; But pride may teach me to forget thee. And cruel is the wintry wind Forgive, forgive, an aching heart, by George Gordon Noel Byron, That chills my heart with cold. That vainly hoped to cheer thee Lord Byron (1788‐1824) , “To a lady” But crueler than all , the lad, These tears may tell thee, while they start, That left my lovely Baby, How all thy grief endear thee! 18. No.13 COME FILL, FILL, MY GOOD nd warm thee in my breast. William Smyth (1765‐1849) FELLOW Ah! Little thinks thy father Come fill, fill, my good fellow! How sadly we’re distrest, 16. No.11 OH! THOU ART THE LAD OF MY Fill high, high, my good Fellow, For cruel as he is, HEART And let’s be merry and mellow, Did he know but how we fare, Oh! Thou art the lad of my heart, Willy, And let us have one bottle more. He’d shield me in his arms There’s love and there’s life and glee, When warm the heart is flowing, From this bitter piercing air. And bright the fancy glowing, Cold, cold, my dearest jewel!

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Thy little life is gone! 23. No.18 ENCHANTRESS, FAREWELL The witch may weave her charm, O let my tears receive thee, Enchantress, farewell, who so oft hast Nor watersprite nor eldritch thing So warm that trickle down! decoy’d me, The bonny boat can harm. My tears that gush so warm, At the close of the evening through It safely bears its scaly store Oh, they freeze before they fall, woodlands to roam, Thro many a storm gale, Ah, wretched, wretched mother Where the forester, ‘lated, with wonder While joyful shouts rise from the shore, Thou art now bereft of all! espied me Its homeward prow to hail. Then down she sunk despairing Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for Joanna Baillie (1762‐1851) Upon the drifted snow, home. And, wrung with killing anguish, Farewell and take with thee thy numbers 25. No.20 FAITHFU’ JOHNIE Lamented loud her woe. wild speaking When will you come again, ma faithfu’ She kiss’d her baby’s pale lips The language alternate of rapture and woe: Johnie, And laid by her side; Oh! none but some lover, whose When will you come again? Then cast her eyes to heaven, heartstrings are breaking “When the corn is gathered, Then bow’d her head, and died. The pang that I feel at our parting can And the leaves are withered, Alexander Ballantyne know. I will come again, ma sweet and bonny, Each joy thou couldst double, and when I will come again.” 21. No.16 COULD THIS ILL WORLD HAVE there came sorrow, Then will you meet me here, ma faithfu’ BEEN CONTRIV’D Or pale disappointment to darken my way, Johnie, Could this ill world have been contriv’d What voice was like thine, that could sing Then will you meet me here? to stand without that mischief, woman, of tomorrow, “Though the night were Hallowe’en, how peaceful bodies wou’d have liv’d, Till forgot in the strain was the grief of When the fearfu’ sights are seen, releas’d frae a’ the ills sae common! today! I would meet thee here, ma sweet and But since it is the waefu’ case, But when friends drop around us in life’s bonny, that man must have this teasing crony, weary waning, I would meet thee here.” why such a sweet bewitching face? The grief, Queen of Numbers, thou canst O come na by the muir, ma faithfu’ Johnie, Oh! had they no been made sae bonny! not assuage; O come na by the muir. I might have roam’d wi’ cheerful mind, Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet “Though the wraiths were glist’ning white nae sin nor sorrow to betide me, remaining, By the dim elf‐candles’ light as careless as the wand’ring wind, The languor of pain, and the chillness of I would come to thee, ma sweet and as happy as the lamb beside me. age. bonny, I might have screw’d my tuneful pegs, ‘Twas thou that once taught me, accents I would come to thee.” and carol’d mountain airs fu’ gayly, bewailing, And shall we part again, ma fathfu’ Johnie? had we but wanted a’ the Megs, To sing how a warrior I lay stretch’d on the Shall we part again? wi’ glossy e’en sae dark and wily. plain, “So lang’s my eye can see, Jean, I saw the danger, fear’d the dart, And a maiden hung o’er him with aid That face so dear to me Jean, the smile, the air, and a’ sae taking, unavailing, We shall not part again, ma sweet and yet open laid my wareless heart, And held to his lips the cold goblet in vain; bonnie, and got the wound that keeps me waking. As vain thy enchantments, O Queen of wild We shall not part again.” My harp waves on the willow green, Numbers possibly by William Smyth (1765‐1849) of wild witch notes it has nae ony, To a bard when the reign of his fancy is “Faithfu’ Johnie” possibly by Anne sinc’ e’er I saw that pawky quean, o’er, Grant , “Faithfu’ Johnie” sae sweet, sae wicked, and sae bonny. And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy James Hogg (1770‐1835) slumbers 26. No.21 JEANIE’S DISTRESS Farewell, then, Enchantress I’ll meet thee By William late offended, 22. No.17 O MARY, AT THY WINDOW BE no more! I blam’d him, I allow O Mary, ye’s be clad in silk, Sir Walter Scott (1771‐1832) , And then my anger ended, And diamonds in your hair, “Farewell to the Muse” And he is angry now. Gin ye’ll consent to be my bride And I in turn am chided, Nor think on Arthur mair. 24. No.19 O SWIFTLY GLIDES THE BONNY For what I ne’er design’d; Oh, wha wad wear a silken gown, BOAT And tho’by love misguided, Wi’ tears blinding their ee? O swiftly glides the bonny boat Am call’d myself unkind. Before I’ll break my true love’s heart, Just parted from the shore, So now, when I am nigh him, I’ll lay me down and die. And to the fisher’s chorus note y looks must coldness wear; For I have pledg’d my virgin troth, Soft moves the dipping oar. They tell me I must fly him Brave Arthur’s fate to share, His toils are borne with happy cheer At market and at fair; And he has gi’en to me his heart And ever may they speed, Nor near the thorn‐tree meet him, Wi’ a’ its virtues rare. That feeble age and helpmate dear At evening, I suppose, The mind whose every wish is pure, And tender bairnies feed. Nor in the morning greet him, Far dearer is to me, As by the door he goes. And e’er I’m forced to break my faith, REFRAIN: Nor at the kirk perceive him, I’ll lay me down and die. We cast our lines in Largo Bay, But ponder on my book; So trust me when I swear to thee, Our nets are floating wide, With downcast eyes deceive him, By a’ that is on high, Our bonny boat with yielding sway Tho’ stealing oft a look. Thoug, ye had a’this warld’s gear, Rocks lightly in the tide. Alas! How long must nature My heart ye couldna buy; And happy prove our daily lot This cruel war maintain? For langest life can ne’er repay, Upon the summer sea, Content in every feature, The love he bears to me; And blest on land our kindly Cot While writhes my heart with pain? And e’er I’m forced to break my troth, Where all our treasures be. O William, dost thou love me? I’ll lay me down and die. Oh! Sure I need not fear; The mermaid on her rock may sing, How, dearest, would it move thee

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To see this falling tear! And croon upon the hill. When Christmas comes about again, Too heedless, thoughtless lover, I hear below the water roar, O, then I shall have money; From what thyself must feel, Th mill wi’ clakkin’ din, I’ll hoard it up, and box it all, Why canst thou not discover, And Lukky scolding frae her door, I’ll give it to my honey: What Jeanie must conceal? To bring the bairnies in, I would it were ten thousand pound, William Smyth (1765‐1849) Oh no! Sad and slow! I’d give it all to Sally; These are nae sounds for me; She is the darling of my heart, 27. 22. THE HIGHLAND WATCH The shadow of a trysting bush, And she lives in our alley. Old Scotia, wake thy mountain strain It creeps sae drearily. My master and the neighbours all In all its wildest splendours! Joanna Baillie (1762‐1851) Make game of me and Sally, And welcome back the lads again, And but for her I’d better be Your honour’s dear defenders! 29. No.24 AGAIN, MY LYRE A slave, and row a galley; Be every harp and viol strung’, Again my lyre, yet once again! But when my seven long years are out, Till all the woodlands quaver: With tears I wake thy thrilling strain Oh! Then I’ll marry Sally; Of many a band your Bards have sung, O sounds to sacred sorrow dear, She is the darling of my heart But never hail’d a braver. I weep, but could for ever hear! And she lives in our alley. Ah! cease! nor more past scenes recall, Henry Carey (1693?‐1743) REFRAIN: Ye plaintive notes! thou dying fall! Then raise the pibroch, Donald Bane, For lost, beneath thy lov’d control, We’re all in key to cheer it; Sweet Lyre! is my dissolving soul. And let it be a martial strain, Around me airy forms appear, That warriors bold may hear it. And Seraph songs are in mine ear! Ye Spirits blest, oh bear away Ye lovely maids, pitch high your notes To happier realms my humble lay! As virgin voice can sound them, For still my Love may deign to hear Sing of your brave, your noble Scots, Those human notes that once were dear! For glory kindles round them. And still one angel sigh bestow Small is the remnant you will see, On her who weeps, who mourns below. Lamented be the others! William Smyth (1765‐1849) But such a stem of such a tree, Take to your arms like brothers. 30. No.25 SALLY IN OUR ALLEY Of all the girls that are so smart, REFRAIN: There’s none like pretty Sally! Raise high the pibroch, Donald Bane, She is the darling of my heart, Strike all our glen with wonder; And she lives in our alley! Let the chanter yell, and the drone notes There’s not a lady in the land That’s swell, half so sweet as Sally, Till music speaks in thunder. She is the darling of my heart And she lives in our alley. What storm can rend your mountain rock, Her father he makes cabbage nets, What wave your headlands shiver? And through the street does cry’ em; Long have they stood the tempest’s shock, Her mother she sells laces long Thou knowst they will for ever. To such as please to buy’ em Sooner your eye these cliffs shall view How could such folks the parents be Split by the wind and weather, Of such a girl as Sally! Than foeman’s eye the bonnet blue She is the darling of my heart Behind the nodding feather. And she lives in our alley. When she is by, I leave my work, REFRAIN: I love her so sincerely; O raise the pibroch, Donald Bane, My master comes like any Turk, Our caps to the sky we’ll send them. And bangs me most severely: Scotland, thy honours who can stain, But let him bang his bellyful, Thy laurels who can rend them! I’ll bear it all for Sally; James Hogg (1770‐1835) She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. 28. No.23 THE SHEPHERD’S SONG Of all the days that’s in the week, The gowan glitters on the sward, I dearly love but one day, The lavrock’s in the sky, And that’s the day that comes between And Colley on my plaid keeps ward, The Saturday and Monday, And time is passing by. For then I’m drest all in my best Oh no! Sad and slow! To walk abroad with Sally. I hear nae welcome sound! She is the darling of my heart The shadow of our trysting bush, And she lives in our alley. It wears so slowly round. My master carries me to church, My sheepbell tinkles frae the west, And often am I blam’d My lambs are bleating near, Because I leave him in the lurch But still the sound tha I lo’e best, As soon as text is nam’d; Alack! I canna hear. I leave the church in sermon‐time Oh no! Sad and slow! And slink away to Sally; The shadow lingers still, She is the darling of my heart, And like a lonely ghaist I stand And she lives in our alley.

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