The Book of Scottish Song/Cold, cold's the hand

Cold, cold’s the hand.

[W. B. Sangster.—Here first printed.—The Lady on whom these verses are written died at Madeira, 8th November, 1842.]

Cold, cold's the hand that oft in mine
Hath thrill'd with hope and feeling,
And deadly still the gentle heart
On which the worm is stealing.

The glossy locks are now laid low,—
The cheeks, once warmly bloomin',
Are pale an' cold as winter's snow
Upon a winter's gloamin'.

The silvery notes that in mine ears
Have dropp'd like oil and manna,
Ah! they are mute as shedden tears—
The sacred voice of Anna.

My much lov'd maid is now no more;
We cannot meet by Banna;
Her place is void, and, oh! I'd soar,
To meet in heaven my Anna.

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