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But sorrow's sell wears past, Jean,
In the land o' the leal.
In the land o' the leal.
In the land o' the leal.
THE HARPER OF MULL.
WHEN Rosie was faithful, how happy was I,
I thought her still kind, and I ne'er was sae blest, As in fancy I clasp'd the dear nymph to my breast. Thou false fleeting vision, too soon thou wert o'er; Thou wak’d'st me to tortures unequall'd before; But death's silent slumbers my griefs soon shall lull, And the green grass wave over the Harper of Mull. *
* At a convivial meeting, where ROBERT TANNAHILL was present, a dispute arose about the chastity of the fair, and their fidelity to the marriage vow. ROBERT, although disappointed in the only amour in which he was ever engaged, supported their cause with a firmness and zeal which he was not always accustomed to exhibit. His opponent, who laboured under the gloom of disappointment, wishing to support his argument by example, hurried over a long list of unfaithfuls, and ended his harangue by reciting the infidelity of Rosie, and the sorrows of the unhappy Harper of Mull. The Bard listened with attention ; and such was the impression made on his mind, that in a few days he presented his friends with the above beautiful song. The original story is long and interesting, occupying many pages of the Bee, a periodical work published a number of years since in Edinburgh. It is briefly as follows:-" In the island of Mull lived a harper, conspicuous for nothing so much as his exquisite performance on that instrument, and his attachment to a lovely rosy-cheeked nymph, who was esteemed by the inhabitants of the island as the sweetest object ever formed by the hand of nature. As the har. per was universally esteemed and admired for his sprightly appearance, and the affectionate simplicity of his manners, he soon gained the heart of his Rosie, and in a few weeks after he made her his bride. Soon after the nuptial ceremony was performed, he set out on a visit to some low country friends, accompanied by his Rosie, and his harp, which had been a companion to him in all his journies for many years. Overtaken by the shades of night, in a solitary part of the country, a cold and shivering faintness fell upon Rosie, and she sunk almost lifeless into the harper's
His tartan plaid he unbound from his arm, and hastily wrapped it round her shivering frame, but the cold sweat still
And from my native shore;
A boundless ocean's roar:
Between my love and me,
My heart and soul from thee.
The maid that I adore !
We part to meet no more!
While death stands victor by,
And thine that latest sigh. gathered on her bloodless cheek, like the silver dew on the lily's leaf. Distracted and alarmed, he hurried in wild disorder from place to place, in search of fuel to revive the dying ember of life. None could be found. His harp lay carelessly on the grass. Its neglected strings vibrated to the blast. The harper loved it dear as his own life, but he loved his Rosie better than either. His nervous arms were applied to its sides, and in a few minutes it lay crackling on the heath. Rosie soon revived, and résumed her journey as soon as morning began to purple the east. Stepping down the sloping side of a hill, they were met by a hunter on horseback, who addressed Rosie in the style of an old and familiar friend. The harper, innocent himself, and unsuspicious of others, paced slowly down the hill. Wondering at his Rosie's delay, he turned round and saw the faithless fair seated on the hunter's steed. The horse flew swift as the wind. The harper, transfixed in astonishment, gazed at them. Then pacing heavily home, he, sighing, exclaimed, Fool that I was to burn my HARP for her.'»
WHA wadna be in love
Wi' bonnie Maggie Lauder; A piper met her gaun to Fife,
And spier'd what was't they ca'd her?
Begone, you hallanshaker;
My name is Maggie Lauder.
Maggie, quoth he, and by my bags,
I'm fidging fain to see thee; Sit down by me, my bonnie bird,
In troth I winna steer thee : For I'm a piper to my trade,
My name is Rob the Ranter; The lasses loup as they were daft,
When I blaw up my chanter.
Piper, quoth Meg, hae you your bags ?
Or is your drone in order?
Live you upon the border ?
Hae heard of Rob the Ranter;
Gif you'll blaw up your chanter.
Then to his bags he flew wi' speed,
About the drone he twisted;
For brawly could she frisk it.
Weel bob’d, quoth Rob the Ranter ; 'Tis worth my while to play, indeed,
When I hae sic a dancer.
Weel hae you play'd your part, quoth Meg,
Your cheeks are like the crimson ;
Since we lost Habby Simpson.
These ten years and a quarter;
Spier ye for Maggie Lauder.
The cantie spring scarce rear'd her head,
And winter yet did blaud her,
An' spier'd for Maggy Lauder ;
It's shelter kindly lent her;
Meg welcom'd Rob the Ranter !
An' to the kirk they ranted;
An' merry Maggie vaunted,
Nor blew sae weel his chanter,
An' wha's like Rob the Ranter!
For a' the talk an' loud reports
That ever gaed against her,
As ever was in Anster;
Rob swears he couldna want her,
An' Meg lo’es Rob the Ranter.