The Book of Scottish Song/As gloaming was drawing

As gloaming was drawing.

[John Fleming.—Air, "Lucy's Flitting."]

As gloaming was drawing her veil o'er the mountains,
And tinging with azure the far distant hill;
And, save the small rills from the moss-cover'd fountains,
The lone face of nature was silent and still.

How sweetly the stream of the valley meander'd,
And sweet was the scent of the hoar hawthorn tree;
Thus allured by the beauties of nature I wander'd
To where the small streamlet was lost in the sea.

And there sat a maiden, lamenting her lover,
Responsive she sigh'd to the slow-heaving wave:
"Thy cares and thy sorrows, dear Edward, are over,"
She said, "Though the wild weltering deep is thy grave."

Oh, thine was a bosom once fraught with affection,
Yes, thine was a heart that to friendship was dear;
Pure virtue has found in thy bosom protection,—
Thy bright eye to pity denied not a tear.

Oh, hope, gentle hope, thou art gone, yes, for ever,
No more thy bright bcims can illumine my mind;
For in this lone bosom shall flourish for ever
Wild stems of despair with distraction entwined.

Roll slowly, roll slowly, thou dark-heaving billow,
Roll slowly along o'er the bed of the brave;
Oh, move not his head from his soft sandy pillow,
But heave the soft sea-weeds along by his grave.

And mine be the task in the stillness of gloaming,
To view the smooth waters that cover his bed;
And when the winds blow and the billows are foaming,
Oh, then shall the tears of remembrance be shed.

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