She half enclosed me with her arms, She pressed me with a meek embrace; And, bending back her head, looked up, And gazed upon my face. 'Twas partly love, and partly fear, I calmed her fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride; My bright and beauteous bride, THE LILY OF NITHSDALE. SHE'S gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie, She's gane to dwall in heaven; Ye're ower pure, quoth the voice of God, For dwalling out of heaven! O what'll she do in heaven, my lassie? O what'll she do in heaven? She'll mix her ain thoughts with angels' sangs, An' make them mair meet for heaven. Low there thou lies, my lassie, Low there thou lies; A bonner form ne'er went to the yird, Nor frae it will arise! Fu' soon I'll follow thee, lassie, I looked on thy death-cold face, my lassie, I looked on thy death-cold face; Thou seemed a lilie new cut i' the bud, An' fading in its place. I looked on thy death-shut eye, my lassie, I looked on thy death-shut eye; An' a lovelier light in the brow of heaven Fell time shall ne'er destroy. Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie, Thy lips were ruddy and calm; But gane was the holy breath of heaven To sing the evening psalm. There's nought but dust now mine, lassie, There's nought but dust now mine; My saul's wi thee in the cauld grave, An' why should I stay behin'? CUNNINGHAM. THE PEASANT'S RETURN. AND passing here through evening dew, He hastened happy to her door, For she wer gone from earthly eyes The moth did eat her Sunday cape; WILLIAM BARNES. When, for the crowning vernal sweet, Among the slopes and crags I meet The pilot's pretty daughter. Round her gentle, happy face, As lightly blew the veering wind, They touched her cheeks, or waved behind, Unbound, unbraided, and unlooped; Or when to tie her shoe she stooped, Below her chin the half-curls drooped, And veiled the pilot's daughter. Rising, she tossed them gayly back, With gesture infantine and brief, To fall around as soft a neck As the wild-rose's leaf. Her Sunday frock of lilac shade (That choicest tint) was neatly made, And not too long to hide from view The stout but noway clumsy shoe, And stockings' smoothly-fitting blue, That graced the pilot's daughter. With look half timid and half droll, And then with slightly downcast eyes, And blush that outward softly stole, Unless it were the skies Whose sun-ray shifted on her cheek, She turned when I began to speak; But 'twas a brightness all her own That in her firm light step was shown, And the clear cadence of her tone; The pilot's lovely daughter. Were it my lot (the sudden wish) To hand a pilot's oar and sail, Or haul the dripping moonlight mesh, Spangled with herring-scale; By dying stars, how sweet 'twould be, And dawn-blow freshening the sea, With weary, cheery pull to shore, To gain my cottage home once more, And clasp, before I reach the door, My love, the pilot's daughter. This element beside my feet Allures, a tepid wine of gold; One touch, one taste, dispels the cheat 'Tis salt and nipping cold: A fisher's hut, the scene perforce |