the dying boy.
155
The Dying Boy.
"My mother dear," said a sickly boy,
His pale face glowing with sudden joy,
As the breeze fanned back from a brow too fair
The clustering locks of his raven hair,
And his dark eye gleamed with as clear a light
As eve's sweet star when it shines most bright—
His pale face glowing with sudden joy,
As the breeze fanned back from a brow too fair
The clustering locks of his raven hair,
And his dark eye gleamed with as clear a light
As eve's sweet star when it shines most bright—
"My mother dear, it is spring-time now,
I feel its fresh breath on my burning brow,
I see the meadows in light green clad—
O mother, my heart feels strangely glad;
And soon, perhaps, on yon gowany lea
I shall join my comrades in health and glee.
I feel its fresh breath on my burning brow,
I see the meadows in light green clad—
O mother, my heart feels strangely glad;
And soon, perhaps, on yon gowany lea
I shall join my comrades in health and glee.
"That breeze has lingered in yon bright bowers,
Laden with incense from early flowers,
For the odours of violet and primrose pale
Are wafted here on the gentle gale,
And the music of yonder streamlet brings
Back to this bosom such dreamy things
Laden with incense from early flowers,
For the odours of violet and primrose pale
Are wafted here on the gentle gale,
And the music of yonder streamlet brings
Back to this bosom such dreamy things
"Of other times, when the summer day
We used to spend on yon sunny brae,
And gather gowans from grassy meads,
For sunny faced girls to string for beads;
I would leave this earth for a happier clime,
But mother, oh, not in the sweet spring-time.
We used to spend on yon sunny brae,
And gather gowans from grassy meads,
For sunny faced girls to string for beads;
I would leave this earth for a happier clime,
But mother, oh, not in the sweet spring-time.
