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Robert Tannahill

 

 

                                                                               

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                       

 

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The Snowstorm

 


Air,— “Fingal's Lamentation.”

 

“Wild drives the bitter northern blast,
Fierce whirling wide the crispy snaw,
Young lassie, turn your wand'ring steps,
For e'ening's gloom begins to fa :
I'll tak you to my faither's ha,
An shiel you frae the wintry air,
For, wand'rin thro the driftin snaw,
I fear ye'll sink to rise nae mair.”

 

“Ah ! gentle lady, airt my way
Across this langsome, lanely moor,
For he wha's dearest to my heart,
Now waits me on the western shore ;
Wi morn he spreads his outward sail—
This nicht I vow'd to meet him there,
To tak ae secret, fond fareweel,
We maybe pairt to meet nae mair.”

 

“Dear lassie, turn—twill be your deid !
The dreary waste lies far an wide ;
Abide till morn, an then ye'll hae
My faither's herdboy for your guide.”
“Na, lady—na ! I maunna turn,
Impatient love now chides my stay,
Yon rising moon, wi kindly beam,
Will licht me on my weary way.”

 

Ah ! Donald, wherefore bounds thy heart ?
Why beams wi joy thy wistfu e'e ?
Yon's but thy true love's fleeting form,
Thy true love mair thoult never see ;
Deep in the hollow glen she lies,
Amang the snaw, beneath the tree,
She soundly sleeps in Death's caul arms,
A victim to her love for thee.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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