But away with this idle The shout of the brave, The yell of the dying, The scream of the flying, When this arm wields Death's sickle, And garners the grave. JOY GIVER! I kiss thee. Far isles of the ocean Thy lightning have known, And wide o'er the main land Great sword of my father, Thou hast carved his name deep on The stranger's red strand, And won him the glory Of undying song. Keen cleaver of gay crests, Sharp piercer of broad breasts, Grim slayer of heroes, And scourge of the strong. FAME GIVER! I kiss thee. In a love more abiding Than that the heart knows, For maiden more lovely Than summer's first rose, My heart's knit to thine, And lives but for thee; In dreamings of gladness, Thou'rt dancing with me, Brave measures of madness In some battle-field, Where armour is ringing, And noble blood springing, And cloven, yawn helmet, Stout hauberk and shield. DEATH GIVER! I kiss thee. The smile of a maiden's eye, Soon may depart; And light is the faith of Fair woman's heart; Changeful as light clouds, Be the passions that govern But thy metal's as true When ills wax in number, The darker the night. HEART GLADENER! I kiss thee. My kindred have perished By war or by wave— Now, childless and sireless, I long for the grave. When the path of our glory Is shadowed in death, With me thou wilt slumber Below the brown heath; Thou wilt rest on my bosom, And with it decay— While harps shall be ringing, The deeds we have done in SONG GIVER! I kiss thee. JEANIE MORRISON. I've wandered east, I've wandered west, Through mony a weary way; But never, never can forget The luve o' life's young day! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en, May weel be black gin Yule; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule. O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path, And blind my een wi' tears: They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne. |