 | The Lonely Isle |  |
53
THE MAID OF ALDERNEY.
O! stop na', bonny bird, that strain,
Frae hopeless love itself it flows;
Sweet bird! O, warble it again,
Thou'st touch'd the string o' a' my woes,
O! lull me with it to repose;
I'll dream of her who's far away,
And Fancy, as my eye-lids close,
Will meet the Maid of Alderney.
Frae hopeless love itself it flows;
Sweet bird! O, warble it again,
Thou'st touch'd the string o' a' my woes,
O! lull me with it to repose;
I'll dream of her who's far away,
And Fancy, as my eye-lids close,
Will meet the Maid of Alderney.
Couldst thou but learn frae me my grief,
Sweet bird, thou'dst leave thy native grove,
And fly to bring my soul relief,
To where my warmest wishes rove;
Soft as the cooings of the Dove,
Thou'dst sing thy sweetest, saddest lay,
And melt to pity and to love,
The bonny Maid of Alderney.
Sweet bird, thou'dst leave thy native grove,
And fly to bring my soul relief,
To where my warmest wishes rove;
Soft as the cooings of the Dove,
Thou'dst sing thy sweetest, saddest lay,
And melt to pity and to love,
The bonny Maid of Alderney.
Well may I sigh, and sairly weep,
Thy song sad recollections bring;
O! fly across the roaring deep,
And to my Maiden sweetly sing,
'Twill to her faithless bosom fling,
Remembrance of a sacred day,—
But feeble is thy wee bit wing,
And far's the Isle of Alderney.
Thy song sad recollections bring;
O! fly across the roaring deep,
And to my Maiden sweetly sing,
'Twill to her faithless bosom fling,
Remembrance of a sacred day,—
But feeble is thy wee bit wing,
And far's the Isle of Alderney.
54
Then, bonny bird, wi' mony a tear,
I'll mourn beside this hoary thorn,
And thou wilt find me sitting here,
Ere thou canst hail the dawn o' morn;
Then, high on airy pinions borne,
Thou'lt chaunt a sang o' love an' wae,
An' soothe me, weeping at the scorn
Of the sweet Maid of Alderney.
I'll mourn beside this hoary thorn,
And thou wilt find me sitting here,
Ere thou canst hail the dawn o' morn;
Then, high on airy pinions borne,
Thou'lt chaunt a sang o' love an' wae,
An' soothe me, weeping at the scorn
Of the sweet Maid of Alderney.
And when around my weary head,
Soft pillow'd where my fathers lye,
Death shall eternal poppies spread,
An' close for aye my tearfu' eye,
Perch'd on some bonny branch on high,
Thou'lt sing thy sweetest roundelay,
And soothe my “spirit, passing by,”
To meet the Maid of Alderney.
Soft pillow'd where my fathers lye,
Death shall eternal poppies spread,
An' close for aye my tearfu' eye,
Perch'd on some bonny branch on high,
Thou'lt sing thy sweetest roundelay,
And soothe my “spirit, passing by,”
To meet the Maid of Alderney.
| The Lonely Isle | |