Adieu! ye cheerful native plains

Adieu! ye cheerful native plains,
Dungeon glooms receive me,
Nought, alas for me remains,
Of all the joys ye gave me-
All are flown!
Banish'd from thy shores, sweet Erin,
I, through life, must toil, despairing.
Lost and unknown.

Howl, ye winds, around my cell,
Nothing now can wound me,
Mingling with your dreary swell,
Prison groans surround me,-
Bodings wild-
Treachery, thy ruthless doing
Long I'll mourn in hopeless ruin,
Lost and exil'd.

poem by Robert Tannahill
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From the Rude Bustling Camp

From the rude bustling camp, to the calm rural plain,
I'm come, my dear Jeanie, to bless thee again;
Still burning for honour our warriors may roam,
But the laurel I wish'd for I've won it at home:
All the glories of conquest no joy could impart,
When far from the kind little girl of my heart
Now, safely return'd, I will leave thee no more
But love my dear Jeannie till life's latest hour.

The sweets of retirement how pleasing to me!
Possessing all worth, my dear Jeanie, in thee !
Our flocks early bleating will make us to joy,
And our raptures exceed the warm tints in the sky;
In sweet rural pastimes our days still will glide,
Till Time, looking back, will admire at* his speed;
Still blooming in virtue, though youth them be o'er,
I'll love my dear Jeanie till life's latest hour.

poem by Robert Tannahill
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Despairing Mary

Mary why thus waste thy youth-time in sorrow?
See, a' around you the flowers sweetly blaw;
Blithe sets the sun o'er the wild cliffs of Jura,
Blithe sings the mavis in ilka green shaw.
How can this heart ever mair think of pleasure,
Summer may smile, but delight I ha'e nane;
Cauld in the grave lies my heart's only treasure,
Nature seems dead since my Jamie is gane.

This 'kerchief he gave me, a true lover's token,
Dear, dear to me was the gift for his sake!
I wear't near my heart, but this poor heart is broken,
Hope died with Jamie, and left it to break
Sighing for him, I lie down in the e'ening,
Sighing for him, I awake in the morn;
Spent are my days a' in secret repining,
Peace to this bosom can never return.

Oft have we wander'd in sweetest retirement,
Telling our loves 'neath the moon's silent beam,

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poem by Robert Tannahill
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