Where green leaves were wavin'
Her eyelids did close,
She lay in that bower
In her innocent sleep,
And spirits around her
Their vigils did keep.
The butterfly breathed
On her cheek for a flower,
As a pure maiden blush
Spoke the dream o' the hour.
While the lassie was sleepin'
A bauld youth came by,—
There was life in his footstep
An' love in his eye.
He stood by the maiden
Who lay in her dream,
An' heard her in slumber
Laigh murmur his name.
An idol she seem'd
Sae heavenly fair,
An' he an idolater
Worshippin' there.
He kiss'd her sweet lips,
An' her warm cheek he press'd;
An' the lassie awoke
On her leal lover's breast!
The e'enin' was fa'in'
On mountain an' fell,
The rush o' the stream
Through the darkness did swell;
But the maid an' her true love
Ne'er heeded the hour,
As they sat in their bliss
In that green briar bower.
He tauld a' his love,
While her tears fell like rain,—
Their joy was sae joyfu'
It maistly was pain.
They hameward return'd
Through the simmer mist grey,
An' twa hearts were happy
For ever and aye!
The Auld Folks.
[Andrew Park.—Here first printed.]
The auld folks sit by the fire,
When the winter nichts are chill,
The auld wife she plies her wire,
The auld man he quaffs his yill.
An' meikle an' lang they speak
O' their youthfu' days gane by,
When the rose it was on the cheek,
An' the pearl was on the eye!
They talk o' their bairnies' bairns,
They talk o' the brave and free,
They talk o' their mountain-cairns,
And they talk of the rolling sea,—
And meikle an' lang they speak
O' their youthfu' days gane by,
When the rose it was on the cheek,
An' the pearl was on the eye!
They talk o' their friends lang gane,
And the tear-draps blin' their e'e;
They talk o' the cauld kirk stane,
Whare sune they baith maun be.
Yet each has had their half
O' the joys o' this fitful sphere,
So whiles the auld folk laugh,
And whiles they drap a tear!
Highland Mary.
[Hon. Mrs. Norton.]
I would I were the light fern growing
Beneath my Highland Mary's tread,
I would I were the green tree throwing
Its shadow o'er her gentle head!
I would I were a wild flower springing
Where my sweet Mary loves to rest,
That she might pluck me while she's singing,
And place me on her snowy breast!
I would I were in yonder heaven
A silver star, whose soft dim light
Would rise to bless each summer even,
And watch my Mary all the night!
I would, beneath these small white fingers,
I were the lute her breath has fanned—
The gentle lute, whose soft note lingers,
As loth to leave her fairy band!
Ah, happy things! ye may not wander
From Scotland to some darker sky,
But ever live unchanging yonder,
