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# The Book of Scottish Song/The Stuarts of Appin

The Stuarts of Appin.
[James Hogg.—Music by Peter M'Leod.]
I sing of a land that was famous of yore, The land of green Appin, the ward of the flood, Where every grey cairn that broods o'er the shore, Marks grave of the royal, the valiant, or good. The land where the strains of grey Ossian were framed,— The land of fair Selma, and reign of Fingal,— And late of a race, that with tears must be named, The noble Clan Stuart, the bravest of all. Oh-hon, an righ! and the Stuarts of Appin! The gallant, devoted, old Stuarts of Appin! Their glory is o'er, for the clan is no more, And the Sassenach sings on the hills of green Appin. ​In spite of the Campbells, their might and renown, And all the proud files of Glenorchy and Lorn, While one of the Stuarts held claim on the crown, His banner full' boldly by Appin was borne. And ne'er fell the Campbells in check or trepan, In all their whig efforts their power to renew, But still on the Stuarts of Appin they ran, To wreak their proud wrath on the brave and the few. Oh-hon, an righ! and the Stuarts of Appin, &c.
In the year of the Graham, while in oceans of blood The fields of the Campbells were gallantly flowing— It was then that the Stuarts the foremost still stood, And paid back a share of the debt they were owing. O, proud Inverlochy! O, day of renown! Since first the sun rose o'er the peaks of Cruachin, Was ne'er such an host by such valour o'erthrown, Was ne'er such a day for the Stuarts of Appin! Oh-hon, an righ! and the Stuarts of Appin, &c.
And ne'er for the crown of the Stuarts was fought One battle on vale, or on mountain deer-trodden, But dearly to Appin the glory was bought, And dearest of all on the field of Culloden! Lament, O, Glen-Creran, Glen-Duror, Ardshiel, High offspring of heroes, who conquer'd were never, For the deeds of your fathers no bard shall reveal, And the bold clan of Stuart must perish for ever! Oh-hon, an righ! and the Stuarts of Appin, &c.
Clan-Chattan is broken, the Seaforth bends low, The sun of Clan-Ranald is sinking in labour; Glencoe, and Clan-Donnachie, where are they now? And where is bold Keppoch, the lord of Lochaber? All gone with the house they supported!—laid low, While dogs of the south their bold life-blood were lapping, Trod down by a proud and a merciless foe— The brave are all gone with the Stuarts of Appin! Oh-hon, an righ! and the Stuarts of Appin, &c.
They are gone! they are gone! the redoubted, the brave! The sea-breezes lone o'er their relics are sighing, Dark weeds of oblivion shroud many a grave, Where the unconquer'd foes of the Campbell are lying. But, long as the grey hairs wave over this brow, And earthly emotions my spirit are wrapping, My old heart with tides of regret shall o'erflow, And bleed for the fall of the Stuarts of Appin! Oh-hon, an righ! and the Stuarts of Appin! The gallant, devoted, old Stuarts of Appin! Their glory is o'er, for their star is no more, And the green grass waves over the heroes of Appin!
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Three Lasses

The Three Lasses.
[William Holmes.—Here first printed.]
My heart, alack! is sair opprest For love o' lasses three; I kenna whilk o' them to choose, They're a' sae dear to me.
Young Peggy has a takin' gate, She's nimble as the fawn; An' likes to play a merry prank, While skipping o'er the lawn.
To see her dancin' gowden locks, My heart loups licht wi' glee; An' when I pree her rosy lips, Care flees awa' frae me.
Wi' eager look upon a book, You'll aft see lady Ann, Wi' jetty locks, an' lily neck Bent like a stately swan;
Amang the tales of olden time She's sic a learned quean, Ye maun tak' tent ere ye begin To crack wi' her at e'en. ​And there is gentle Madeline, Wi' een o' lovin' blue, To hear her sing an auld Scotch sang You'd bless her earnest mou'.
Aye when I gang frae Madeline, Nae body by to tell, The winsome sangs she sings to me I whistle to mysel'.
Noo, can ye guess me whilk o' them My wifie's like to be?— In troth, I kenna weel mysel'— They're a' sae dear to me!
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Thistle of Scotland

The Thistle of Scotland.
[This song, to the tune of "Black Joké," is given in Hogg's "Jacobite Relics," along with the following commentary:—"This is a modern song, and the only one that is in the volume, to my knowledge. It had no right to be here, for it is a national, not a Jacobite song; but I insert it out of a whim, to vary the theme a little. It is an excellent song, though professedly an imitation; and, when tolerably sung, never misses of having a good effect among a company of Scots people. It has been published as mine in several collections: I wish it were: but I am told that it was written by Mr. Sutherland, land-surveyor, a gentleman of whom I know nothing, save that he is the author of some other popular songs."—We cannot say what reliance is to be placed on this statement of the Shepherd's. But knowing his unfortunate disposition to cajollery in matters literary, we are quite prepared to believe, on very slender proof, that the Mr. Sutherland, the land-surveyor, the gentleman of whom he "knows nothing save that he is the author of some other popular songs," is a phantom of his own creating; and that the real author of the present song was the same who wrote "The Pilgrims of the Sun," "The Queen's Wake," and a variety of other Works.]
Let them boast of the country gave Patrick his fame, Of the land of the ocean, and Anglian name, With the red-blushing roses, and shamrock so green: Far dearer to me are the hills of the North, The land of blue mountains, the birth-place of worth; Those mountains where freedom has fix'd her abode, Those wide-spreading glens where no slave ever trode, Where blooms the red heather and thistle so green.
Though rich be the soil where blossoms the rose, And barren the mountains, and cover'd with snows, Where blooms the red heather and thistle so green; Yet, for friendship sincere, and for loyalty true, And for courage so bold which no foe could subdue, Unmatch'd is our country, unrivall'd our swains, And lovely and true are the nymphs on our plains, Where rises the thistle, the thistle so green.
Far-famed are our sires in the battles of yore, And many the cairnies that rise on our shore, O'er the foes of the land of the thistle so green; And many a carnie shall rise on our strand, Should the torrent of war ever burst on our land,
Let foe come on foe, as wave comes on wave, We'll give them a welcome, we'll give them a grave, Beneath the red heather and thistle so green.
O, dear to our souls, as the blessings of heaven, Is the freedom we boast, is the land that we live in, The land of red heather and thistle so green: For that land and that freedom our fathers have bled, And we swear by the blood that our fathers have shed, No foot of a foe shall e'er tread on their grave; But the thistle shall bloom on the bed of the brave, The thistle of Scotland, the thistle so green.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Thorn Tree

The Thorn Tree.
[From Tait's Magazine for Sept. 1838.]
I watch'd the moon blink owre the hill, And, oh, she glentit bonnily! Then met my lass, when a' was still, Below the spreading thorn tree. Oh! for the thorn tree—the fair, the spreading thorn tree!— The flame o' love lowes bonnily aneath a spreading thorn tree!
The glow o' youth beam'd on her cheek, And love was lowin' in her e'e, And Cupids play'd at hide-and-seek Around us at the thorn tree. Oh! for the thorn tree—the fair, the spreading thorn tree!— The flame o' love lowes bonnily aneath a spreading thorn tree!
The wanton breeze, wi' downy wing, Cam' soofin' owre us cannily; And saft and sweet the burn did sing, When trottin' by the thorn tree. Oh! for the thorn tree—the fragrant-scented thorn tree!— I ken o' naught sic joys can gi'e as love aneath the thorn tree!
I clasp'd my lassie to my heart, And vow'd my love should lasting be; And wussed ilk ill to be my part, When I forgot the thorn tree. Oh! for the thorn tree—the fresh, the scented thorn tree!— I'll ever mind, wi' blythsome glee, my lassie and the thorn tree!
We met beneath the rising moon— She beddit maist as soon as we, She hung the westlan' heights aboon When we cam' frae the thorn tree. Oh! for the thorn tree—the fresh, the milk-white thorn tree!— 'Twas past the midnight hour a wee, when we cam' frae the thorn tree!
I've seen the glass careerin' past— I liked it too—I'll never lee; But, oh! its joys can ne'er be class'd Wi' love aneath the thorn tree! Oh! for the thorn tree—the fresh, the milk-white thorn tree!— Of a' the joys there's nane to me like love aneath the thorn tree!
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Honour's Martyr

XVIII
HONOUR'S MARTYR
The moon is full this winter night; The stars are clear though few; And every window glistens bright With leaves of frozen dew.
The sweet moon through your lattice gleams, And lights your room like day; And there you pass, in happy dreams, The peaceful hours away!
While I, with effort hardly quelling The anguish in my breast, Wander about the silent dwelling, And cannot think of rest.
The old clock in the gloomy hall Ticks on, from hour to hour; And every time its measured call Seems lingering slow and slower:
And, oh, how slow that keen-eyed star Has tracked the chilly grey! What, watching yet! how very far The morning lies away! ​Without your chamber door I stand; Love, are you slumbering still? My cold heart, underneath my hand, Has almost ceased to thrill.
Bleak, bleak the east wind sobs and sighs, And drowns the turret bell, Whose sad note, undistinguished, dies Unheard, like my farewell!
To-morrow, Scorn will blight my name, And Hate will trample me, Will load me with a coward's shame— A traitor's perjury.
False friends will launch their covert sneers; True friends will wish me dead; And I shall cause the bitterest tears That you have ever shed.
The dark deeds of my outlawed race Will then like virtues shine; And men will pardon their disgrace, Beside the guilt of mine.
For, who forgives the accursed crime Of dastard treachery? Rebellion, in its chosen time, May Freedom's champion be; ​Revenge may stain a righteous sword, It may be just to slay; But, traitor, traitor,—from that word All true breasts shrink away!
Oh, I would give my heart to death, To keep my honour fair; Yet, I'll not give my inward faith My honour's name to spare!
Not even to keep your priceless love, Dare I, Beloved, deceive; This treason should the future prove, Then, only then, believe!
I know the path I ought to go; I follow fearlessly, Inquiring not what deeper woe Stern duty stores for me.
So foes pursue, and cold allies Mistrust me, every one: Let me be false in others' eyes, If faithful in my own.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/How Clear She Shines

XII
HOW CLEAR SHE SHINES
How clear she shines! How quietly I lie beneath her guardian light; While heaven and earth are whispering me, 'To-morrow, wake, but, dream to-night.' Yes, Fancy, come, my Fairy love! These throbbing temples softly kiss; And bend my lonely couch above, And bring me rest, and bring me bliss.
The world is going; dark world, adieu! Grim world, conceal thee till the day; The heart thou canst not all subdue, Must still resist, if thou delay!
Thy love I will not, will not share; Thy hatred only wakes a smile; Thy griefs may wound—thy wrongs may tear, But, oh, thy lies shall ne'er beguile! While gazing on the stars that glow Above me, in that stormless sea, I long to hope that all the woe Creation knows, is held in thee! ​And this shall be my dream to-night; I'll think the heaven of glorious spheres Is rolling on its course of light In endless bliss, through endless years; I'll think, there's not one world above, Far as these straining eyes can see, Where Wisdom ever laughed at Love, Or Virtue crouched to Infamy;
Where, writhing 'neath the strokes of Fate, The mangled wretch was forced to smile; To match his patience 'gainst her hate, His heart rebellious all the while. Where Pleasure still will lead to wrong, And helpless Reason warn in vain; And Truth is weak, and Treachery strong; And Joy the surest path to Pain; And Peace, the lethargy of Grief; And Hope, a phantom of the soul; And Life, a labour, void and brief; And Death, the despot of the whole!
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Heaven's glory shone where he was laid

LI
Heaven's glory shone where he was laid In life's decline! I turned me from that young saint's bed To gaze on thine.
It was a summer day that saw His spirit's flight; Thine parted in a time of awe, A winter's night.
Upon her soothing breast She lulled her little child, A winter sunset in the west A heavy glory smiled. I gazed within thine earnest eyes And read the sorrow brooding there; I heard thy young breast torn with sighs, And envied such despair.
Go to the grave in youth's bare woe! That dream was written long ago.
December 19, 1839.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/How Edenlike seem palace walls

IX
How Edenlike seem palace walls When youth and beauty join To waken up their lighted Halls With looks and smiles divine!
How free from care the perfumed air About them seems to play! How glad and bright appears each sight, Each sound how soft and gay!
'Tis like the heaven which parting days In summer's pride imbue With beams of such impartial blaze, And yet so tender too.
Oh, memory brings a scene to mind Beneath whose noble dome Rank, beauty, wealth, and power combine To light their lordly home.
Yet parting day, however bright, It still is parting day— The herald of approaching night, The trappings of decay.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/How still, how happy! These are words

XXX
How still, how happy! These are words That once would scarce agree together; I loved the splashing of the surge, The changing heaven, the breezy weather,
More than smooth seas and cloudless skies And solemn, soothing, softened airs, That in the forest woke no sighs And from the green spray shook no tears.
How still, how happy! now I feel Where silence dwells is sweeter far Than laughing mirth with joyous swell, However pure its raptures are.
Come, sit down on this sunny stone; 'Tis wintry light o'er flowless moors; But sit, for we are all alone, And clear expand heaven's breathless shores.
I could think in the withered grass Spring's budding wreaths we might discern; The violet's eye might shyly flash, And young leaves shoot among the fern.
It is but thought—full many a night The snow shall clothe these hills afar, And storms shall add a drearier blight And winds shall wage a wilder war, ​Before the lark may herald in Fresh foliage twined with blossoms fair, And summer days again begin Their glory-haloed crown to wear.
Yet my heart loves December's smile As much as July's golden gleam! Then let me sit and watch the while The blue ice curdling on the stream.
December 7, 1838.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/High waving heather 'neath stormy blasts bending

V
High waving heather 'neath stormy blasts bending, Midnight and moonlight and bright shining stars; Darkness and glory rejoicingly blending, Each rising to heaven and heaven descending; Man's spirit away from the drear dungeon sending, Bursting the fetters and breaking the bars.
All down the mountain-sides wild forests lending The mighty voice to the life-giving wind; Rivers their banks in the jubilee bending, Fast through the valleys a reckless course wending, Wilder and deeper their waters extending, Leaving a desolate desert behind.
Shining and lowering, and swelling and dying, Changing for ever from midnight to noon; Roaring like thunder, like soft music sighing, Shadows on shadows advancing and flying; Lightning-bright flashes the deep gloom defying, Coming as swiftly and fading as soon.
Woods, you need not frown on me; Spectral trees, that so dolefully Shake your heads in the dreary sky, You need not mock so bitterly.
December 13, 1836.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/Hope

IX
HOPE
Hope was but a timid friend; She sat without the grated den, Watching how my fate would tend, Even as selfish-hearted men.
She was cruel in her fear; Through the bars one dreary day, I looked out to see her there, And she turned her face away!
Like a false guard, false watch keeping, Still, in strife, she whispered peace; She would sing while I was weeping; If I listened, she would cease.
False she was, and unrelenting; When my last joys strewed the ground, Even Sorrow saw, repenting, Those sad relics scattered round;
Hope, whose whisper would have given Balm to all my frenzied pain, Stretched her wings, and soared to heaven, Went, and ne'er returned again!
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/How long will you remain? The midnight hour

XXXVII
How long will you remain? The midnight hour Has tolled its last stroke from the minster tower. Come, come; the fire is dead, the lamp burns low; Your eyelids droop, a weight is on your brow; Your cold hands hardly hold the weary pen: Come; morn will give recovered strength again.
No; let me linger; leave me, let me be A little longer in this reverie: I'm happy now; and would you tear away My blissful thought that never comes with day.
A vision dear, though false, for well my mind Knows what a bitter waking waits behind. Can there be pleasure in this shadowy room, With windows yawning on intenser gloom, And such a dreary wind so bleakly sweeping Round walls where only you are vigil keeping? Besides, your face has not a sign of joy, And more than tearful sorrow fills your eye. Look on those woods, look on that mountain lorn, And think how changed they'll be to-morrow morn: The doors of heaven expanding bright and blue; The leaves, the green grass, sprinkled with the dew; And white mists rising on the river's breast, And wild birds bursting from their songless nest, ​And your own children's merry voices chasing The phantom ghost that pleasure has been raising. Aye speak of these; but can you tell me why Day breathes such beauty over earth and sky, And waking sounds revive, restore again To hearts that all night long have throbbed with pain? Is it not that the sunshine and the wind Lure from itself the woe-worn mind, And all the joyous music breathing by, And all the splendours of that cloudless sky, Regive him shadowy gleams of infancy And draw his tired gaze from futurity?
August 12, 1839.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/His land may burst the galling chain

XXVI
His land may burst the galling chain, His people may be free again, For them a thousand hopes remain, But hope is dead for him. Soft falls the moonlight on the sea Whose wild waves play at liberty, And Gondal's wind sings solemnly Its hollow midnight hymn.
Around his prison walls it sings, His heart is stirred through all its strings, Because that sound remembrance brings Of scenes that once have been. His soul has felt the storm below, And walked a realm of sunless snow, Dire region of most mighty woe, Made voiceless by despair.
And Harold's land may burst its chain, His subjects may be free again, For them a thousand hopes remain, But hope is dead for him. Set is his sun of liberty; Fixed is his earthly destiny; A few years of captivity, And then a captive's tomb.
# The Complete Poems of Emily Brontë/I'll come when thou art saddest

XI
I'll come when thou art saddest, Bring light to the darkened room, When the rude day's mirth has vanished, And the smile of joy is banished From evening's chilly gloom.
I'll come when the heart's worst feeling Has entire, unbiassed sway, And my influence o'er thee stealing, Grief deepening, joy congealing, Shall bear thy soul away.
Listen! 'tis just the hour, The awful time for thee. Dost thou not feel upon thy soul A flood of strange sensations roll, Forerunners of a sterner power, Heralds of me?
November 1837.
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/My Sweet Brown Gal

MY SWEET BROWN GAL
W'en de clouds is hangin' heavy in de sky, An' de win's 's a-taihin' moughty vig'rous by, I don' go a-sighin' all erlong de way; I des' wo'k a-waitin' fu' de close o' day.
Case I knows w'en evenin' draps huh shadders down, I won' care a smidgeon fu' de weathah's frown; Let de rain go splashin', let de thundah raih, Dey 's a happy sheltah, an' I 's goin' daih.
Down in my ol' cabin wa'm ez mammy's toas', 'Taters in de fiah layin' daih to roas'; No one daih to cross me, got no talkin' pal, But I 's got de comp'ny o' my sweet brown gal.
So I spen's my evenin' listenin' to huh sing, Lak a blessid angel; how huh voice do ring! Sweetah den a bluebird flutterin' erroun', W'en he sees de steamin' o' de new ploughed groun'.
Den I hugs huh closah, closah to my breas'. Need n't sing, my da'lin', tek you' hones' res'. Does I mean Malindy, Mandy, Lize er Sal? No, I means my fiddle-dat's my sweet brown gal!
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/Night

NIGHT
Silence, and whirling worlds afar  Through all encircling skies. What floods come o'er the spirit's bar,  What wondrous thoughts arise.
The earth, a mantle falls away,  And, winged, we leave the sod; Where shines in its eternal sway  The majesty of God.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/Mortality

MORTALITY
Ashes to ashes, dust unto dust, What of his loving, what of his lust? What of his passion, what of his pain? What of his poverty, what of his pride? Earth, the great mother, has called him again: Deeply he sleeps, the world's verdict defied. Shall he be tried again? Shall he go free? Who shall the court convene? Where shall it be? No answer on the land, none from the sea. Only we know that as he did, we must: You with your theories, you with your trust,— Ashes to ashes, dust unto dust!
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/My Corn-Cob Pipe

MY CORN-COB PIPE
Men may sing of their Havanas, elevating to the stars The real or fancied virtues of their foreign-made cigars; But I worship Nicotina at a different sort of shrine, And she sits enthroned in glory in this corn-cob pipe of mine.
It 's as fragrant as the meadows when the clover is in bloom; It 's as dainty as the essence of the daintiest perfume; It 's as sweet as are the orchards when the fruit is hanging ripe, With the sun's warm kiss upon them—is this corn-cob pipe.
Thro' the smoke about it clinging, I delight its form to trace, Like an oriental beauty with a veil upon her face; And my room is dim with vapour as a church when censers sway, As I clasp it to my bosom—in a figurative way.
It consoles me in misfortune and it cheers me in distress, And it proves a warm partaker of my pleasures in success; So I hail it as a symbol, friendship's true and worthy type, And I press my lips devoutly to my corn-cob pipe.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse