The Book of Scottish Song/There's none to soothe

There’s none to soothe.

[James Yool.—Air, "Bonnie was yon rosy brier."]

There's none to soothe my soul to rest,
There's none my load of grief to share,
Or wake to joy this lonely breast,
Or light the gloom of dark despair.
Oft to the winds my grief I tell,
They bear along the mournful tale,
To dreary echo's rocky cell,
That heaves it back upon the gale.
The little wild bird's merry lay,
That wont my lightsome heart to cheer,
In murmuring echoes dies away,
And melts like sorrow on my ear.
The voice of joy no more can cheer,
The look of love no more can warm,
Since mute for aye's that voice so dear,
And clos'd that eye alone could charm.

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