THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS.

HE day returns, my bosom burns,

The blissful day we twa did meet;
Though winter wild in tempest toil'd,
Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet.
Than a' the pride that loads the tide,

And crosses o'er the sultry Line;

Than kingly robes, than crowns. and globes,
Heaven gave me more-it made thee mine.

While day and night can bring delight,
Or nature aught of pleasure give;
While joys above my mind can move,
For thee and thee alone I live!

When that grim foe of life below
Comes in between to make us part;
The iron hand that breaks our band,
It breaks my bliss-it breaks my heart.

BURNS.

HIGHLAND MÁRY.

E banks and braes and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie.

There Simmer first unfald her robes,
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade,
I clasp'd her to my bosom!
The golden hours on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me, as light and life,

Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace,

Our parting was fu' tender;

And pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder;

But oh! fell death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early,

Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay
That wraps my Highland Mary!

Oh pale, pale now, those rosy lips
I aft hae kissed sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly;
And mould'ring now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.

BURNS.

121

HE grass is wet with shining dews,
Their silver bells hang on each tree;
While opening flower and bursting bud
Breathe incense forth unceasingly :
The mavis pipes in greenwood shaw,
The throstle glads the spreading thorn,
And cheerily the blythesome lark
Salutes the rosy face of morn.

'Tis early prime;

And hark, hark, hark,

His merry chime

Chirrups the lark.

Chirrup, chirrup! he heralds in

The jolly sun with matin hymn.

Come, come, my love, and May-dews shake In pailfuls from each drooping bough, They'll give fresh lustre to the bloom

That breaks upon thy young cheek now.

May-Morn Song.

O'er hill and dale, o'er waste and wood,

Aurora's smiles are streaming free;
With earth it seems brave holiday,
In heaven it looks high jubilee:
And it is right,

For mark, love, mark,

How, bathed in light,
Chirrups the lark.

Chirrup, chirrup! he upward flies,
Like holy thoughts to cloudless skies.

They lack all heart who cannot feel

The voice of heaven within them thrill
In summer morn, when, mounting high,
This merry minstrel sings his fill.
Now let us seek yon bosky dell,

Where brightest wildflowers choose to be,
And where its clear stream murmurs on,
Meet type of our love's purity.

No witness there;

And o'er us, hark,

High in the air

Chirrups the lark.

Chirrup, chirrup! away soars he,

Bearing to heaven my vows to thee.

123

MOTHERWELL.