The Book of Scottish Song/The days of old

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!

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