On this last and lovely night

My Dark-Haired Maid

Mo nighean dubh, the hills are bright,
And on this last and lovely night,
I'd fain frae auld Knockgowan's height
Look owre the glen wi' thee.
Never mair we'll tread its heather,
Never doun the lea
Liltin' will we shear thegither,
Fu' o' mirth and glee,
Fortune's blasts o' wintry weather
Drive us owre the sea,
But lang's we're blest wi' ane anither,
Fie! let fears gae flee.
Yet see, my dear, the hills are bright,
And on this last and lovely night
I'd fain frae auld Knockgowan's height
Look owre the glen wi' thee.

Mo nighean dubh, 'twas there we met,
And O! that hour is precious yet,
When first my honest vow could get
Love's tearfu' smile frae thee.
Hearts were pledged ere either knew it,
What's to be maun be,
Mine was tint ere I could trow o't
Wi' that glancing e'e.
Dear Knockgowan and the view o't
Ne'er again we'll see,
O let me gang and tak adieu o't
Laoth ma chree, wi' thee.
Mo nighean dubh, 'twas there we met,
And O! that hour is precious yet,
When first my honest vow could get
Love's tearfu' smile frae thee.



The words to this song were written for the tune 'Mo nighean dubh' by Dr John Park (1805-1865), who was a Presbyterian minister in St Andrews. According to Songs of the North, whence I got the text, 'Laoth ma chree' is a Gaelic expression which means literally "calf of my heart". This is Percy Grainger's choral version of the song:

Thou'rt the music of my soul: Maiden of Morven

Maiden of Morven: An Ossianic Love-Lament

The lament of an Ossianic hero for the death of his lady-love, accidentally lost in a storm off the point of Ardnamurchan


Moan ye winds that never sleep,
Howl ye spirits of the deep,
Roar ye torrents down the steep,
Roll ye mists on Morven.
May the tempests never rest
Nor the seas with peace be blest
Since they tore thee from my breast,
Maiden of Morven!

Fairer than the flowers that grow,
Purer than the rills that flow,
Gentler than the fallow doe
'Mid the woods of Morven;
As the leaf is to the tree,
As the summer to the bee,
So wert thou, my Love, to me,
Maiden of Morven!

Ossian's harp sings Fingal's praise;
Wild the lilt of Carril's lays,
Men and maids of other days
Fire his tales of Morven.
Though their chords like thunder roll,
When at Beltane brims the bowl,
Thou'rt the music of my soul,
Maiden of Morven!

Oft I chased the deer of yore;
Many a battle-brunt I bore,
When the chiefs of Innistore
Hurled their might on Morven.
Blunt my spear, and slack my bow,
Like an empty ghost I go,
Death the only hope I know,
Maiden of Morven!


This dramatic piece of Victorian Scottish antiquarianism is by Harold Boulton. I don't know much about Ossian and his laments, but you don't really need to in order to enjoy the awesomeness of this song. The tune is an old Highland melody with a super-dramatic setting by Malcolm Lawson, like thunder clouds rolling; you can sort of hear it in this recording at Amazon.

Innistore, according to the note in Songs of the North, is "the Orkney Islands, then like many of the Islands under the dominion of the Scandinavian Kings, who were frequently at war with the Celtic Fingalians of the Mainland". Oh, those Scandinavian kings, always at war with someone. Archaeology helpfully confirms the historical records, since just last year there was a very exciting discovery in Ardnamurchan: a Viking ship-burial complete with the body and artefacts.

Most of my knowledge of this part of Scotland comes from the film 'I Know Where I'm Going', and so this stormy song always makes me think of its climatic scene in Corryvreckan whirlpool (the whole film is on youtube; the whirpool scene starts at about 1:07:00). It's a wonderful film, impossible not to fall in love with; you should definitely watch it if you have an hour or two to spare. The plaintive tune playing as the boat returns is, appropriately, The Boatman, because Powell and Pressburger had excellent taste...

O’er the moor I wander lonely

You can here a snippet of what sounds like an excellent version of Percy Grainger's setting of this 'Song of the North' here. The words are by A(nnie) C(ampbell) Macleod, collector of the Skye Boat Song.


O’er the moor I wander lonely,
Ochon-a-rie, my heart is sore;
Where are all the joys I cherished?
With my darling they have perished,
And they will return no more.

I loved thee first, I loved thee only,
Ochon-a-rie, my heart is sore;
I loved thee from the day I met thee,
What care I though all forget thee!
I will love thee evermore.

The Nameless Lassie

There 's nane may ever guess or trow my bonnie lassie's name,
There 's nane may ken the humble cot my lassie ca's her hame;
Yet though my lassie's nameless, an' her kin o' low degree,
Her heart is warm, her thochts are pure, and, O! she 's dear to me.

She 's gentle as she 's bonnie, an' she 's modest as she 's fair,
Her virtues, like her beauties a', are varied as they're rare;
While she is light an' merry as the lammie on the lea--
For happiness an' innocence thegither aye maun be!

Whene'er she shews her blooming face, the flowers may cease to blaw,
An' when she opes her hinnied lips, the air is music a';
But when wi' ither's sorrows touch'd, the tear starts to her e'e,
Oh! that 's the gem in beauty's crown, the priceless pearl to me.

Within my soul her form 's enshrined, her heart is a' my ain,
An' richer prize, or purer bliss, nae mortal e'er can gain;
The darkest paths o' life I tread wi' steps o' bounding glee,
Cheer'd onward by the love that lichts my nameless lassie's e'e.




'The Nameless Lassie' is a song by James Ballantine (1806-1877) - who was both a poet and stained-glass artist, what a combination!  Unlike the other Victorian Scottish songs I've posted so far, this one shades a little too far into the sentimental and the didactic for me (my tolerance level for Victorian sentimentalism is sky-high, but this is just a bit much - I think it's the 'lammie' that does it!).  But I do like the last verse, and, in combination with the lovely tune, by Alexander Mackenzie (1819-1857), the effect is really rather charming.

My faithful fond one

I thought I'd posted this pretty little song before, but since I haven't, here it is. The words of 'My faithful fond one' are translated from the Gaelic ('Mo Run Geal Dileas') by 'Professor Blackie' (you can read those here); this is how they appear in Songs of the North. Here's the sole performance on youtube, but it looks like Percy Grainger also set it - I must investigate this further...


Chorus:
My fair and rare one, my faithful fond one,
My faithful fair, wilt not come to me,
On bed of pain here who remain here
With weary longing for a sight of thee?

If wings were mine now to skim the brine now,
And like a seagull to float me free,
To Islay's shore now, they'd bear me o'er now,
Where dwells the maiden that is dear to me.

O were I yonder with her to wander
Beneath the green hills, beside the sea,
With birds in chorus that warble o'er us
And ruth of kisses so sweet to me.

For let the sky here be wet or dry here,
With peaceful breeze here or windy war,
In winter glooming or summer blooming,
'Tis all one season, love, when thou art far.

Mary Morison

I think we'd better have a little Robert Burns, since it's his birthday (in my time zone). All my exposure to Burns comes from sitting alone at a piano and reading through great big volumes called things like 'Songs of the North', learning to play and sing the songs before I had any idea who Burns was; and so for me he's all about the gentle love songs, and knowledge of the rest of his prolific career came second. So here's a love song - one of my favourites.

One consequence of being self-taught in this haphazard fashion is that I'm ridiculously fussy about the many, many recordings of Burns songs out there in the world, because when you learn to play something entirely in your own way, nothing else ever sounds quite right! But this poem is not quite the same without its tune, and so after sifting through lots of youtube videos I've decided I like this performance.


O Mary, at thy window be,
It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see
That make the miser's treasure poor:
How blythely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,—
I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said amang them a',
"Ye are na Mary Morison."

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace
Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

A Twilight Song: The Lea Rig

This song is by Burns, of course; its supremely jolly tune can be heard all over youtube, but I'm partial to this version. It has seemed appropriate over the last few sunny days of September, with their fiery twilights.


When o'er the hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin time is near, my jo,
And owsen frae the furrow'd field
Return sae dowf and weary O;
Down by the burn, where birken buds
Wi' dew are hangin clear, my jo,
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind Dearie O.

At midnight hour, in mirkest glen,
I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie, O,
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind Dearie O;
Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,
And I were ne'er sae weary O,
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind Dearie O.

The hunter lo'es the morning sun;
To rouse the mountain deer, my jo;
At noon the fisher seeks the glen
Adown the burn to steer, my jo:
Gie me the hour o' gloamin' grey,
It maks my heart sae cheery O,
To meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind Dearie O.

The lark to its nest, the stream to the ocean

I love this song, which was written by 'A. C. Macleod', i.e. Annie Campbell Macleod, i.e. Lady Wilson, who collected the tune of the Skye Boat Song while being rowed across Loch Coruisk. I'm informed that 'Mhairi bhan og' means 'Mary my fair'.


Mhairi bhan og, my ain only deaire,
My winsome, my bonnie wee bride,
Let the world gang and a' the lave wi' it
Gin ye are but left by my side.
The lark to its nest, the stream to the ocean,
The star to its home in the west,
And I to my Mary, and I to my darling,
And I to the ane I love best.

Time sall not touch thee, nor trouble come near thee,
Thou maunna grow old like the lave,
And gin ye gang, Mary, the way o' the weary,
I'll follow thee soon to the grave.
A glance o' thy e'en wad banish a' sorrow,
A smile, and fareweel to a' strife,
For peace is beside thee, and joy is around thee,
And love is the light o' thy life.

Turn ye to me

This is a song called 'Turn ye to me', by John Wilson (1785-1854), a Scottish poet who wrote under the pseudonym Christopher North (and who was, I see, a Magdalen man). You can hear the lilting tune here. Apparently "Mhairi dhu" means "Mary dear" - but I can't vouch for that or anything; my Gaelic is of the non-existent variety.


The stars are shining cheerily, cheerily,
Horo, Mhairi dhu, turn ye to me.
The sea mew is moaning drearily, drearily,
Horo, Mhairi dhu, turn ye to me.

Cold is the stormwind that ruffles his breast
But warm are the downy plumes lining his nest
Cold blows the storm there,
Soft falls the snow there,
Horo, Mhairi dhu, turn ye to me.

The waves are dancing merrily, merrily,
Horo, Mhairi dhu, turn ye to me.
The seabirds are wailing wearily, wearily,
Horo, Mhairi dhu, turn ye to me.

Hushed be thy moaning, lone bird of the sea;
Thy home on the rocks is a shelter to thee;
Thy home is the angry wave,
Mine but the lonely grave
Horo, Mhairi dhu, turn ye to me.

O gin I were a baron's heir

This is a pretty little song by William Holder; here's the jolly tune on youtube.

Oh, gin I were a baron's heir,
And could I braid wi' gems your hair,
And make ye braw as ye are fair,
Lassie, would ye lo'e me?
And could I tak' ye to the town,
And show ye braw sights many a ane,
And busk ye fine in silken gown,
Lassie, would ye lo'e me?

Or should ye be content to prove,
In lowly life unfading love,
A heart that nought on earth could move,
Lassie, would ye lo'e me?
And ere the lav'rock wing the sky,
Say, would ye to the forest hie,
And work wi' me sae merrily,
Lassie, would ye lo'e me?

And when the braw moon glistens o'er,
Our wee bit bield and heathery muir,
Will ye na greet that we're sae puir,
Lassie, though I lo'e ye?
For I ha'e nought to offer ye,
Nae gowd frae mine, nae pearl frae sea,
Nor am I come o' hie degree,
Lassie, but I lo'e ye.


And since people seem to find this page looking for a translation, here it is:

Oh, if I were a baron's heir, and I could braid your hair with gems, and make you as smartly dressed as you are beautiful, lassie, would you love me? And if I could I take you to the town, and show you many fine sights, and dress you splendidly in a silken gown, lassie, would you love me?

Or would you be content to prove your unfading love in a lowly life, with a heart that nothing on earth could move; lassie, would you love me? And before the lark takes to the sky, tell me, would you go to the forest? Would you work with me so merrily? Lassie, would you love me?

And when the bright moon glistens over our little bit of shelter and the heathery moor, will you not cry because we're so poor, lassie, though I love you? For I have nothing to offer you - no gold from the mine, no pearl from the sea, nor am I come from a noble family, lassie, but I love you.

It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face

We've come back to Robbie Burns already! This is much less obscure that the Scotch songs I've posted so far, and not exactly in need of me to promote it - but all the same, I love this.


It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face,
Nor shape that I admire;
Altho' thy beauty and thy grace
Might weel awauk desire.

Something, in ilka part o' thee,
To praise, to love, I find,
But dear as is thy form to me,
Still dearer is thy mind.

Nae mair ungenerous wish I hae,
Nor stronger in my breast,
Than, if I canna make thee sae,
At least to see thee blest.

Content am I, if heaven shall give
But happiness to thee;
And as wi' thee I'd wish to live,
For thee I'd bear to die.


The almost-unrelated picture is Dicksee's 'The End of the Quest'; I just found it and will probably be using it to illustrate pretty much every post from now on. You have fair warning.

The Boatman

This song is called 'The Boatman' and it was translated from the Gaelic by Thomas Pattison, a poet from Islay. It was published in this gorgeous book, The Gaelic Bards and Original Poems, and this page has a picture of the author. Here's his introduction to the poem:

THE BOATMAN

The number of boatmen, fishers, and half-sailors in the Western islands, is out of all proportion to the rest of the inhabitants; especially on the margin of the thousand creeks and inlets and arms of the sea that calmly nestle in the land. When night is falling on the long and winding loch that leads to a murmuring fishing village, the heavy sound of oars is heard incessantly along the silent shores; or in the summer twilight, when the wind is favourable, many and many sailing-boats may be seen gliding silently, as ghosts, over the smooth, hill-sheltered floor of the fresh western sea-way. Then the far-carried sound of voices comes to the wanderer on the bank, and reminds him, as he looks into the dim gloaming whence they issue, of the mysterious paths that are on the great ocean. Sometimes wild storms overtake the fisher, and anxious hearts wait for him at his home. Sometimes a fierce mountain squall leaps like a wild beast upon him, as he passes by in his careless security, and drives him far away from his warm and blazing hearth; or, as I have known more than once to happen, overturns his frail bark, and sinks him in the hissing, tumbling waters. Where the fishers have large boats they go a great distance, and remain for weeks away. Very frequently they take a voyage or two abroad, and all of them are at least half, and many of them thorough-bred, sailors. The fishing population and the agricultural population differ a good deal in their dress, and a little even in their appearance; of course their associations are dissimilar. The fishermen are a very much respected class, however; and no doubt they think a good deal of themselves. It is of one of them the following very popular song treats. This "Man of the Boat" had gone over the sea, and was like never to return. He had left some one behind him, who mourned his absence greatly.

How often hunting the highest hill-top,
I scan the ocean thy sail to see:
Wilt come to-night, love? Wilt come to-morrow?
Or ever come, love! to comfort me?

My soul is weary ; my heart is breaking ;
With frequent tear-drops mine eyes o'erflow.
Wilt come to-night, love? May I expect thee?
Or, sighing sorely, the door put to?

I question fondly thy friends, and ask them.
Where last they saw thee? where thou art now?
But each one, jeering, some answer gives me,
That sends me homeward with burning brow.

They call thee fickle, they call thee false one,
And seek to change me; but all in vain.
No; thou'rt my dream yet throughout the dark night
And every morn yet I watch the main.

Dost thou remember the promise made me —
The tartan plaidie — the silken gown —
The ring of gold with thy hair and portrait?
That gown and ring I will never own.

For not a hamlet — too well I know it —
Where you go wandering, or stay a while,
But all its old folk you win with talking,
And charm its maidens with song and smile.

And yet I dare not deny I love thee;
And not a month, — oh, nor yet a year,
But thee for ever,— since first in childhood
I stroll'd beside thee, and thought thee dear.

My friends they warn me, and oft advise me,
To let thy false vows forgotten be:
As vain their counsel, as if they order'd
Yon little streamlet roll back the sea.

So here I wander, a tearful mourner —
A stricken cygnet, with music-moan,
That sings her dirge-note by grassy fountain,
When, all forsaken, she dies alone!


In Songs of the North the song has this Gaelic refrain:
Fhir a bhata na horo eile,
Fhir a bhata na horo eile,
Fhir a bhata na horo eile,
O fare thee well, love, where'er thou be.

with the note: "Fhir a bhata" (pronounced 'Ear a vata') means 'O Boatman'. Na horo eile is merely a call.

And here it is being sung:

As I gaed doun Glenmoriston

This is a 'Song of the North' by Sir Harold Boulton (1859-1935), who also wrote the lyrics to 'The Skye Boat Song'. The dialect shouldn't present too many problems, I hope...


As I gaed doun Glenmoriston,
Where waters meet about Alteerie,
I saw my lassie milkin' kye
Wi' skilfu' hand and sang sae cheerie.
The wind that stirred her gowden hair
Blew saftly frae the hill at even,
And like a moorland flower she looked
That lichtly lifts its head to heaven.

Frae that sweet hour her name I'd breathe
Wi' nocht but clouds and hills to hear me,
And when the warld to rest was laid
I'd watch for dawn and wish her near me,
Till one by one the stars were gone,
The moorcock to his mate called clearly,
And daylicht glinted on the burn
Where red-deer cross at mornin' early.

The years are lang, the wark is sair,
And life is afttimes wae and wearie,
Yet Foyer's flood shall cease to fall
Ere my love fail unto my dearie.
I loved her then, I love her now,
And cauld wad be the warld without her,
The croodlin' bairnies at her knee
And licht o' mither's love about her.

Health and Joy Be With You

Here's another sweet Scotch song by John Stuart Blackie. In Songs of the North it has the heading 'Health and Joy be with you', with the Gaelic title 'Gu ma slan a chi mi', and consists of these three verses:

1. Health and joy be with you,
My bonnie nut-brown maid,
With tresses richly flowing,
With virgin grace arrayed;
Thy voice to me is music
When heavy I may be,
It heals my heart's deep sorrow
To speak a word with thee.

2. In sadness I am rocking
This night upon the sea.
For troubled is my slumber
When thy smile is far from me ;
On thee I'm ever thinking,
Thy face is ever near,
And if I may not find thee
Then death alone is dear.

3. Before we heaved our anchor
Their evil speech began.
That you no more should see me
The false and faithless man ;
Droop not thy head, my darling.
My heart is all thine own,
No power on earth can part us
But cruel death alone.


So simple, and yet so lovely!

I found another version in this e-book of The Selected Poems of John Stuart Blackie, which has some more verses and a different phrasing for some of the lines. To my taste (probably influenced by blind loyalty to Songs of the North), the shorter version is superior, but verses 3 and 4 are delightful:

1. May health and joy be with you,
My bonnie nut-brown maid,
With your dress so trim and tidy
And your hair of bonnie braid.
Thy voice to me is music
When heavy I may be,
And it heals my heart's deep sorrow
To speak a word with thee.

2. 'Tis in sadness that I'm rocking
This night upon the sea.
Right scanty is my slumber
When thy smile is far from me;
'Tis on thee that I am thinking,
'Tis thy face that I behold.
And if I may not find thee
May I lie beneath the mould.

3. Thine eyes are like the blaeberry
Full and fresh upon the brae;
Thy cheeks blush like the rowans
On a mellow autumn day.
If the gossips say I hate thee,
'Tis an ugly lie they tell,
Each day's a year to me since
I left my lovely Nell.

4. They said that I did leave thee
To feed on lovelier cheer,
That I turned my back upon thee
For thy kiss was no more dear;
O never heed their tattle,
My bonnie, bonnie lass.
Thy breath to me is sweeter
Than the dew upon the grass.

5. Before we heaved our anchor
Their evil speech began.
That you no more should see me
The false and faithless man;
Droop not thy head, my darling.
My heart is all thine own,
No power from thee can part me
But cruel death alone.

6. There are story-telling people
In the world, great and small,
Their heart it swells with poison,
And their mouth it droppeth gall;
Ev'n let them spin their lies now,
They'll see the thing that's true,
When the minister shall speak the word
That maketh one of two.

7. The knot of love that binds us
Is tied full sure and tight;
What matters if they wrong me.
When I know that I am right?
There's many a rich curmudgeon
Frets his heart with bitter spleen;
But I can live, and love, and laugh,
Although my purse be lean.

Brown-haired maiden

In the collection of 'random things I like' which is pretty much what this blog is composed of, there has so far been one large omission. I've sometimes posted about folk songs and ballads, which I love, and which I would probably be studying right now if there were any way to prove their medieval roots (mostly there isn't). However, I also have a very soft spot in my heart for what you might call Victorian 'faux-folk' (fauk?) songs - especially the so-called 'Scotch songs' which had a big surge in popularity in the 19th century, as part of the general enthusiasm for Scotland which was nurtured by Queen Victoria's fondness for the country and the popularity of Burns, Sir Walter Scott, etc.

The most famous of these 'Scotch songs' are compositions like The Skye Boat Song or Annie Laurie, which, although they may have been based on traditional songs, were essentially new compositions written in the idiom of Scottish folk song. I own a couple of wonderful books full of this stuff, with titles like The Lyric Gems of Scotland (available to read online here) and Songs of the North. Many are sentimental and some are silly; but the best have a particular quality of dignified tenderness which is utterly lacking from popular culture today. One of the many ways in which the Victorians were better than us.

Here's one I especially like. Songs of the North only tells me that it was translated from the Gaelic (from a song(?) called 'Gruagach Dhonn') by 'Professor Blackie', i.e. John Stuart Blackie (1809-1895), poet and classical scholar. I'm pretty sure the tune in the book is a simplified version of this one (oddly), but I can't explain how or why... This is the sum total of my knowledge of this song.


Brown-haired maiden

Brown-haired maiden, fresh and fair,
Blithe and bright with lightsome air,
Tuesday when I trysted thee
All the week was worth to me.

Brown-haired maid with witching smile,
Full of love and free from guile,
Softly 'neath the hawthorn tree
Came thy whispered troth to me.

Young were we when first fond love
Found us in the hazel grove;
Sweet thy kisses were to me
And thy voice was melody.

God be with thee, brown-haired maid,
In the sunshine or the shade;
Every Tuesday saved for thee
Brings a year of bliss to me.