The woodlands all May-blown appear!
The silver stream murmurs new charms!
As my Jamie, sweet-smiling, draws near,
And, all eager, I rush to his arms.
The lily of the vale.
[Allan Ramsay.—This may be sung to the tune of "The Banks of Doon."]
The lily of the vale is sweet;
And sweeter still the op'ning rose;
But sweeter far my Mary is
Than any blooming flow'r that blows.
Whilst spring her fragrant blossoms spreads,
I'll wander oft by Mary's side,
And whisper saft the tender tale,
By Forth, sweet Forth's meandering tide.
There will we walk at early dawn,
Ere yet the sun begins to shine;
At eve oft to the lawn we'll tread,
And mark that splendid orb's decline.
The fairest choicest flowers I'll crop,
To deck my lovely Mary's hair,
And while I live, I vow and swear,
She'll be my chief, my only care.
The Day Returns.
["I composed this song," says Burns, "out of compliment to one of the happiest and worthiest married couples in the world, Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, and his lady. At their fireside I have enjoyed more pleasant evenings than at all the houses of fashionable people in the country put together; and to their kindness and hospitality I am indebted for many of the happiest hours in my life."—The song first appeared in Johnson's Museum to a tune composed by Mr. Riddel himself, which he called "The Seventh of November," that being the anniversary of his marriage."]
The day returns, my bosom burns,
The blissful day we twa did meet;
Though winter wild in tempest toil'd,
Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet.
Than a' the pride that loads the tide,
And crosses o'er the sultry line;
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes,
Heaven gave me more—it made thee mine.
While day and night can bring delight,
Or nature aught of pleasure give;
While joys above my mind can move,
For thee, and thee alone, I'll live!
When that grim foe of life below
Comes in between to make us part;
The iron hand that breaks our band,
It breaks my bliss—it breaks my heart.
Where shall the lover rest.
[This solemn warning strain Sir Walter Scott puts into the mouth of Fitz-Eustace, in the third canto of Marmion."—"A mellow voice," says the poet—
"A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had,
The air he chose was wild and sad;
Such have I heard, in Scottish land,
Rise from the busy harvest band,
When falls before the mountaineer,
On Lowland plains, the ripen'd ear.
Now one shrill voice the notes prolong,
Now a wild chorus swells the song:
Oft have I listen'd, and stood still,
As it came softened up the hill,
And deem'd it the lament of men
Who languish'd for their native glen:
And thought how sad would be such sound
On Susquehana's swampy ground,
Kentucky's wood-encumber'd brake,
Or wild Ontario's boundless lake,
Where heart-sick exiles, in the strain,
Recall'd fair Scotland's hills again."]
Where shall the lover rest,
Whom the fates sever,
From his true maiden's breast,
Parted for ever?
Where, through groves deep and high,
Sounds the far billow,
Where early violets die,
Under the willow.
Eleu loro.
Soft shall be his pillow.
