The Book of Scottish Song/Marion

Marion.

[Robert Gilfillan.—Inscribed to his niece, Miss Marion Law Gilfillan.]

My own, my true-loved Marion!
No wreath for thee I'll bring;
No summer-gather'd roses fair,
Nor snow-drops of the spring!
O! these would quickly fade—for soon
The brightest flowers depart;
A wreath more lasting I will give—
A garland of the heart!

My own, my true-loved Marion!
Thy morn of life was gay,
Like to a stream that gently flows
Along its lovely way!
And now, when in thy pride of noon,
I mark thee, blooming fair;
Be peace and joy still o'er thy path,
And sunshine ever there!

My own, my gentle Marion!
Though 'tis a world of woe,
There's many a golden tint that falls
To gild the road we go!
And in this chequer'd vale, to me
A light hath round me shone,
Since thou came from thine Highland home
In days long past and gone!

My own, my true-loved Marion!
Cold, cold this heart shall be,
When I shall cease to love thee still—
To cheer and cherish thee!
Like ivy round the wither'd oak
Though all things else decay,
My love for thee shall still be green,
And will not fade away!

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