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Ne'er tell me of glories serenely adorning
The close of our day, the calm eve of our night, — Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of morning,
Her clouds and her tears are worth evening's best light.
Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning,
When passion first waked a new life thro' his frame, And his soul,—like the wood that grows precious in burning, —
Gave out all its sweets to Love's exquisite flame!
Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Wind of the western sea!
Blow him again to me;
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Rest, rest, on mother's breast,
Father will come to thee soon,
Under the silver moon:
Ye winds that sweep the grove's green tops
And kiss the mountains hoar, O softly stir the ocean-waves
That sweep along the shore!
That wantons on the sea;
And waft him hame to me.
O leave nae mair the bonny glen,
Clear stream, and hawthorn grove, Where first we walked in gloaming gray,
And sighed and looked of love;
And faithless is the wind:
'Mang Scotland's hills behind.
Allah Cunningham. BALLAD.
Oh, why does my lover linger,
The lover that loves me well, In bowers under the blue waves,
Lull'd by a breathing shell?
Why waits he among the corals,
In the cold sea-deeps alone, While the shore is tired with my foot-tread,
The wind sick with my moan?
My rose-woven wreath is fallen,
My hair all damp and torn, My bridal garments fading,
Their silver white is gone.
Yet in bowers under the blue waves,
Lull'd by a breathing shell,
The lover that loves me well.
Oh, fairer than our palm-groves
The ruby corals must be ; —
For even his love of me!
Yet far, far over the ocean
Left he his mother dear,
To dwell forever here.
And over the wide, wide ocean
His dark-eyed sister left he,
Forever to dwell with me.
Then dearer than his youth's bowers
The ruby corals must be,
For even his love of me.
James W. Miller.
I Would take thee home to my heart, but thou wilt not come to me:
Ah! lonely art thou sailing far out on the stormy sea; And lonely am I sitting with the cold dark rocks around; Weary the sight of heaving waves, weary their thundering sound.
ANNIE OF LOCHROYAN.
'O Wha will shoe my bonny foot?
And wha will glove my hand? And wha will lace my middle jimp
Wi' a lang lang linen band?
'O wha will kame my yellow hair
And wha will be my bairn's father
'Thy father will shoe thy bonny foot,
Thy sister will lace thy middle jimp
'Thy brother will kame thy yellow hair, Wi' a new-made silver kame,
And God will be thy bairn's father,