Poem by William Glen

The Maid of Oronsey

O, STOPNA, bonnie bird, that strain;
  Frae hopeless love itsel’ it flows;
Sweet bird, O, warble it again,
  Thou ’st touched the string o’ a’ my woes:
O, lull me with it to repose,
  I ’ll dream of her who ’s far away,
And fancy, as my eyelids close,
  Will meet the maid of Oronsey.

Couldst thou but learn frae me my grief,
  Sweet bird, thou ’dst leave thy native grove,
And fly to bring my soul relief,
  To where my warmest wishes rove;
Soft as the cooings of the dove,
  Thou ’dst sing thy sweetest, saddest lay,
And melt to pity and to love
  The bonny maid of Oronsey.

Well may I sigh and sairly weep,
  The song sad recollections bring;
O, fly across the roaring deep,
  And to my maiden sweetly sing;
’T will to her faithless bosom fling
  Remembrance of a sacred day;
But feeble is thy wee bit wing,
  And far ’s the isle of Oronsey.

Then, bonny bird, wi’ mony a tear
  I ’ll mourn beside this hoary thorn,
And thou wilt find me sitting here,
  Ere thou canst hail the dawn o’ morn;
Then high on airy pinions borne,
  Thou ’lt chant a sang o’ love an’ wae,
An’ soothe me, weeping at the scorn
  Of the sweet maid of Oronsey.

And when around my weary head,
  Soft pillowed where my fathers lie,
Death shall eternal poppies spread,
  An’ close for aye my tearfu’ eye;
Perched on some bonnie branch on high,
  Thou ’lt sing thy sweetest roundelay,
And soothe my “spirit, passing by”
  To meet the maid of Oronsey.

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