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Though cold her pale lips to reward With love's own mysteries, Ah, rob no daisy from her swand, Rough gale of eastern seas!
Ah, render sere no silken bent That by her head-stone waves; Let noon and golden summer blent Pervade these ocean graves.
And, ah, dear heart, in thy still nest, Resign this earth of woes, Forget the ardors of the west, Neglect the morning glows.
Sleep and forget all things but one, Heard in each wave of sea,-- How lonely all the years will run Until I rest by thee.
John Byrne Leicester Warren [1835-1895]
THE MINSTREL'S SONG From "Aella"
Oh sing unto my roundelay; Oh drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holiday; Like a running river be!
My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree!
Black his hair as the winter night, White his throat as the summer snow, Red his cheek as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below.
Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note; Quick in dance as thought can be; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout, Oh, he lies by the willow tree.
Hark! the raven flaps his wing In the briery dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing, To the night-mares as they go.
See! the white moon s.h.i.+nes on high; Whiter is my true love's shroud; Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud.
Here, upon my true love's grave, Shall the barren, flowers be laid; Not one holy saint to save All the coldness of a maid.
With my hands I'll twist the briers Round his holy corpse to gre; Elfin fairy, light your fires, Here my body still shall be.
Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my heartes blood away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day.
Water-witches, crowned with reeds, Bear me to your deadly tide.
I die! I come! my true love waits!
Thus the damsel spake, and died.
Thomas Chatterton [1752-1770]
HIGHLAND MARY
Ye banks and braes and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie!
There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel O' my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade I clasped her to my bosom!
The golden hours on angel's wings Flew o'er me and my dearie; For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace Our parting was fu' tender; And, pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder; But, O! fell Death's untimely frost, That nipped my flower sae early!
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary!
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kissed sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly; And moldering now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary.
Robert Burns [1759-1796]
TO MARY IN HEAVEN
Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love!
Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace,-- Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!
Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled sh.o.r.e, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn h.o.a.r, Twined amorous round the raptured scene; The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed, The birds sang love on every spray,-- Till soon, too soon, the glowing west Proclaimed the speed of winged day.
Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but the impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
Robert Burns [1759-1796]
LUCY
I Strange fits of pa.s.sion have I known: And I will dare to tell, But in the lover's ear alone, What once to me befell.
When she I loved looked every day Fresh as a rose in June, I to her cottage bent my way, Beneath an evening moon.
Upon the moon I fixed my eye, All over the wide lea; With quickening pace my horse drew nigh Those paths so dear to me.
And now we reached the orchard-plot; And, as we climbed the hill, The sinking moon to Lucy's cot Came near, and nearer still.
In one of those sweet dreams I slept, Kind Nature's gentlest boon!
And all the while my eyes I kept On the descending moon.
