First like the lily pale ye grew, So faded Was it a breath of evil wind That harm'd thee, lovely child? I've watch'd thee in the mirk midnight, The moon is sitting on the hill, The owl doth chase the bearded bat, On a far séa thy father sails Among the spicy isles; He thinks on thee, and thinks on me, And as he thinks, he smiles And sings, while he his white sail trims, And severs swift the sea, About his Anna's sunny locks, And of her bright blue e'e. O blessed fountain, give her back 'Tis a small gift, thou blessed well, But kingdoms to a mother's heart,— MY AIN BONNIE MAY. WILLIAM NICHOLSON. O will ye go to yon burn side, My ain bonnie May? The sun blinks blithe on yon burn side, Whare lambkins lightly play; The wild bird whistles to his mate, My ain bonnie May. The waving woods, wi' mantle green, Whare I'll pu' a posie for my May, O' mony a bonnie flower. My father maws ayont the burn, To spin my mammy's gane; And should they see thee here wi' me, I'd better been my lane. The lightsome lammie little kens Whan ance the flush o' spring is o'er, The flow'rs will fade, the woods decay, And lose their bonnie green; The sun wi' clouds may be o'ercast, Before that it be e'en. Ilk thing is in its season sweet; So love is, in its noon : But cank'ring time may soil the flow'r, And spoil its bonnie bloom. O, come then, while the summer shines, Ere age his with'ring, wintry blast For thee I'll tend the fleecy flocks, And nightly clasp thee to my breast, The blush o'erspread her bonnie face, She had nae mair to say, But ga'e her hand, and walk'd alang, The youthfu' bloomin' May. THE BRIDE OF ALLANBAY. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. Upon the bonnie mountain side, Upon the leafy trees, Upon the rich and golden fields, Upon the deep green seas, The wind comes breathing freshly forth- A wing'd shaft from the land! The sheep love Skiddaw's lonesome top, The shepherd loves his hill, The throstle loves the budding bush, Sweet woman loves her will; My son! a gray-hair'd peasant said, And meek and humble make thy heart; For ere yon bright'ning moon Lift her wondrous lamp above the wave There shall be shriekings heard at sea, My son! go pluck thy mainsail down, Come forth and weep, come forth and pray, All ye who have got sons to-night Upon the faithless main. And wherefore, old man, should I turn? Dost hear the merry pipe, The harvest bugle winding Among Scotland's corn fields ripe? And see her dark-eyed maidens dance, Whose willing arms alway Are open for the merry lads Of bonnie Allanbay? Full sore the old man sigh'd, and said, Go bid the mountain wind Breathe softer, and the deep waves hear The prayers of frail mankind, And mar the whirlwind in his might : His hoary head he shook, Gazed on the youth, and on the sea, And sadder wax'd his look. Lo, look! here comes our lovely bride- As chafe the billows when she goes |