COME ROWE THE BOAT WAS written long ago to a boat-song that I heard in the Highlands, sung by the rowers. It is a short cross measure, -one of those to which it is impossible to compose good or flowing verses, but, when sung, is very sweet. It has since been set in modern style by Bishop. See Goulding and D'Almaine's Select Scottish Melodies. COME rowe the boat, rowe the boat, Ply to the pibroch's note, Steer for yon lonely cot O'er the wild main ; For there waits my dearie, And sorely she'll weary To hear our bold strain. Then rowe for her lover, And play, boys, to move her, The tide-stream is over, And mild blows the gale. I see her a-roaming Like swan in the gloaming, Or angel a-coming Her Ronald to hail! The deer of Ben-Aitley Is comely and stately, As tall and sedately She looks o'er the dale The sea-bird rides sprightly O'er billows so lightly, Or boldly and brightly Floats high on the gale. But O, my dear Mary, What heart can compare thee With aught in the valley, The mountain, or tide? All nature looks dreary When thou art not near me, But lovely and dearly When thou'rt by my side. THE HIGHLANDER'S FAREWELL Is one of those desperate Jacobite effusions, which, in the delirium of chivalry, I have so often poured out when contemplating the disinterested valour of the clans, and the beastly cruelty of their victors. It is a mercy that I live in a day when the genuine heir of the Stuarts fills their throne, else my head would only be a tenant at will of my shoulders. I have composed more national songs than all the bards of Britain put together. Many of them have never been published; more of them have been, under various names and pretences: but few of them shall ever be by me again.-The song is set by Smith, in the Scottish Minstrel. O WHERE shall I gae seek my bread, Or where shall I gae wander, O where shall I gae hide my head, For here I'll bide nae langer? The seas may rowe, the winds may blow, And swathe me round in danger, And roam a lonely stranger! The glen that was my father's own, Maun be by his forsaken; The house that was my father's home Oh hon! oh hon! our glory's gone, Our hands are on the broad claymore, And thou, my Prince, my injured Prince, Thy people have disown'd thee Have hunted and have driven thee hence, With ruined Chiefs around thee. Though hard beset, when I forget Thy fate, young, hapless rover, This broken heart shall cease to beat, And all its griefs be over. Farewell, farewell, dear Caledon, In guile and treachery stronger. |