The yellow broom is waving abune the sunny brae,
And the rowan berries dancing where the sparkling waters play;
Tho’ a’ is bright and bonnie it’s an eerie place to me,
For we’ll meet nae mair, my dearest, either by burn or tree.
Far up into the wild hills there’s a kirkyard lone and still,
Where the frosts lie ilka morning and the mists hang low and chill.
And there ye sleep in silence while I wander here my lane
Till we meet ance mair in Heaven never to part again!
November’s Cadence.
EARL OF SOUTHESK
The bees about the Linden-tree,
When blithely summer blooms were springing,
Would hum a heartsome melody,
The simple baby-soul of singing;
And thus my spirit sang to me
When youth its wanton way was winging:
“Be glad, be sad—thou hast the choice—
But mingle music with thy voice.”
The linnets on the Linden-tree,
Among the leaves in autumn dying,
Are making gentle melody,
A mild, mysterious, mournful sighing;
And thus my spirit sings to me
While years are flying, flying, flying:
“Be sad, be sad, thou hast no choice,
But mourn with music in thy voice.”
Cailleach Bein-y-Vreich.
JOHN CAMPBELL SHAIRP
Weird wife of Bein-y-Vreich! horo! horo!
Aloft in the mist she dwells;
Vreich horo! Vreich horo! Vreich horo!
All alone by the lofty wells.
Weird, weird wife! with the long gray locks,
She follows her fleet-foot stags,
Noisily moving through splinter’d rocks,
And crashing the grisly crags.