How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon, With green spreading bushes and flow’rs blooming fair! But the boniest flow’r on the banks of the Devon Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew; And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, That steals on the evening each leaf to renew! O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn; And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden or lawn! Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies, And England triumphant display her proud rose: A fairer than either adorns the green valleys, Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.
Braving Angry Winter’s Storms
Tune—“Neil Gow’s Lament for Abercairny.”
Where, braving angry winter’s storms, The lofty Ochils rise, Far in their shade my Peggy’s charms First blest my wondering eyes; As one who by some savage stream A lonely gem surveys, Astonish’d, doubly marks it beam With art’s most polish’d blaze. [Footnote 1: Of the Edinburgh High School.] Blest be the wild, sequester’d shade, And blest the day and hour, Where Peggy’s charms I first survey’d, When first I felt their pow’r! The tyrant Death, with grim control, May seize my fleeting breath; But tearing Peggy from my soul Must be a stronger death.
Song—My Peggy’s Charms
Tune—“Tha a’ chailleach ir mo dheigh.”
My Peggy’s face, my Peggy’s form, The frost of hermit Age might warm; My Peggy’s worth, my Peggy’s mind, Might charm the first of human kind. I love my Peggy’s angel air, Her face so truly heavenly fair, Her native grace, so void of art, But I adore my Peggy’s heart. The lily’s hue, the rose’s dye, The kindling lustre of an eye; Who but owns their magic sway! Who but knows they all decay! The tender thrill, the pitying tear, The generous purpose nobly dear, The gentle look that rage disarms— These are all Immortal charms.