Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/399

Rh Where green leaves were wavin'

Her eyelids did close,

She lay in that bower

In her innocent sleep,

And spirits around her

Their vigils did keep.

The butterfly breathed

On her cheek for a flower,

As a pure maiden blush

Spoke the dream o' the hour.

While the lassie was sleepin'

A bauld youth came by,—

There was life in his footstep

An' love in his eye.

He stood by the maiden

Who lay in her dream,

An' heard her in slumber

Laigh murmur his name.

An idol she seem'd

Sae heavenly fair,

An' he an idolater

Worshippin' there.

He kiss'd her sweet lips,

An' her warm cheek he press'd;

An' the lassie awoke

On her leal lover's breast!

The e'enin' was fa'in'

On mountain an' fell,

The rush o' the stream

Through the darkness did swell;

But the maid an' her true love

Ne'er heeded the hour,

As they sat in their bliss

In that green briar bower.

He tauld a' his love,

While her tears fell like rain,—

Their joy was sae joyfu'

It maistly was pain.

They hameward return'd

Through the simmer mist grey,

An' twa hearts were happy

For ever and aye!

[.—Here first printed.]

auld folks sit by the fire,

When the winter nichts are chill,

The auld wife she plies her wire,

The auld man he quaffs his yill.

An' meikle an' lang they speak

O' their youthfu' days gane by,

When the rose it was on the cheek,

An' the pearl was on the eye!

They talk o' their bairnies' bairns,

They talk o' the brave and free,

They talk o' their mountain-cairns,

And they talk of the rolling sea,—

And meikle an' lang they speak

O' their youthfu' days gane by,

When the rose it was on the cheek,

An' the pearl was on the eye!

They talk o' their friends lang gane,

And the tear-draps blin' their e'e;

They talk o' the cauld kirk stane,

Whare sune they baith maun be.

Yet each has had their half

O' the joys o' this fitful sphere,

So whiles the auld folk laugh,

And whiles they drap a tear!

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I were the light fern growing

Beneath my Highland Mary's tread,

I would I were the green tree throwing

Its shadow o'er her gentle head!

I would I were a wild flower springing

Where my sweet Mary loves to rest,

That she might pluck me while she's singing,

And place me on her snowy breast!

I would I were in yonder heaven

A silver star, whose soft dim light

Would rise to bless each summer even,

And watch my Mary all the night!

I would, beneath these small white fingers,

I were the lute her breath has fanned—

The gentle lute, whose soft note lingers,

As loth to leave her fairy band!

Ah, happy things! ye may not wander

From Scotland to some darker sky,

But ever live unchanging yonder,

To happiness and Mary nigh!