Oh, Helen dear.
[Thomas Anderson.—Here first printed.—Tune, "John Anderson, my jo."]
Oh, Helen dear! oh, Helen dear!
Do ye no mind the day,
When you and I were lad and lass,
And on the green did stray;
When wearied wi' our walk at e'en,
I kindly led you hame,
And stole the tender parting kiss,
And breathed your cherish'd name?
I'm sure our hearts were guileless then,
And free from every stain;
We little dream'd that aught on earth
Could ever gi'e us pain.
But days and years ha'e o'er us pass'd,
And weel ye ken, I ween,
That sorrows, toils, and troubles great,
Our dreary lot ha'e been.
And what may be our future fate,
Ah! little do we ken,
But, trusting aye to providence,
We'll tak' what heaven may sen'.
This chequer'd scene it soon will close,
And we will get the ca',
Just like the sere and yellow leaf,
When winter's bleak winds blaw.
The days of old.
[Charles Scott.—Here first printed.]
We stood beside the shore,—
And I knew not what to say,
For I lov'd her well before,
In my boyhood's golden day:
And though her eye, retreating,
Left the plaintive tale untold,
I felt her heart was beating
For the burning words of old.
We listen'd to the ocean,—
But my lips they dared not speak,
Though the life-blood, with emotion,
Came in flushes to my cheek.—
Yet our words, when they awoke,
Were like falling snow-flakes cold—
And we never, never spoke
Of the happy days of old.
And the sun it shone as brightly
As it shone when we had lov'd,—
And the summer winds as lightly
O'er the summer ocean roved,—
And the trysting oak in yonder glen
Stlll shook its branches bold;—
But, ah! what spell revives again
The faded loves of old?
And I long'd that we were parted,
For I could not hide the sigh;
And the bitter tear-drop started
To the gentle maiden's eye.
I walk'd the beach alone—
But my heart—it felt so cold!
I knew they had for ever gone,
Those burning days of old!
Eliza.
[Burns.—Tune, "Gilderoy."—The heroine of this song, some say, was Elizabeth Miller, one of the "Mauchline Belles;" others avow that she was Elizabeth Black, afterwards Mrs. Stewart, a vintner in Alva; while John Gait is of opinion that the real lady was a relative of his own, named Elizabeth Barbour.]
From thee, Eliza, I must go,
And from my native shore;
The cruel fates between us throw
A boundless ocean's roar:
But boundless oceans, roaring wide
Between my love and me,
They never, never can divide
My heart and soul from thee.
Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear,
The maid that I adore!
A boding voice is in mine ear,
We part to meet no more.
But the last throb that leaves my heart,
While death stands victor by,
That throb, Eliza, is thy part,
And thine that latest sigh.
