 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
30
THE MAID OF A MOUNTAIN LAND.
I met with a joyous few last night,
Gathered around the taper's light:
Warm hearts were glad and bright eyes shone,
Kind words were spoken in friendship's tone;
Calm truth fell pure from every tongue,
And voices awoke in the spell of song;
And one was there of that social band—
The dark-eyed Maid of a Mountain Land.
Gathered around the taper's light:
Warm hearts were glad and bright eyes shone,
Kind words were spoken in friendship's tone;
Calm truth fell pure from every tongue,
And voices awoke in the spell of song;
And one was there of that social band—
The dark-eyed Maid of a Mountain Land.
A smile of delight from all went round,
As she turned to the casket of sleeping sound;
On the tremulous keys her fingers fell,
As rain-drops fall in a crystal well;
Till full on the ear the witchery stole,
And melody melted the captive soul:
She touched the chords with a skilful hand,—
The dark-eyed Maid of a Mountain Land.
As she turned to the casket of sleeping sound;
On the tremulous keys her fingers fell,
As rain-drops fall in a crystal well;
Till full on the ear the witchery stole,
And melody melted the captive soul:
She touched the chords with a skilful hand,—
The dark-eyed Maid of a Mountain Land.
She sang of the bards of her native plains,
But Burns was the soul of her breathing strains:
She sang of bold Wallace of Elderslie,
Who died with a spirit unstained and free;
She sang of the deeds of Bruce the brave,
Who fought for the crown his country gave;
She spoke of her home 'mid scenes so grand,—
That dark-eyed Maid of a Mountain Land.
But Burns was the soul of her breathing strains:
She sang of bold Wallace of Elderslie,
Who died with a spirit unstained and free;
She sang of the deeds of Bruce the brave,
Who fought for the crown his country gave;
She spoke of her home 'mid scenes so grand,—
That dark-eyed Maid of a Mountain Land.
31
I have been with the buoyant dames of France,
In the pensive hour, in the mirthful dance;
I have looked in the gay Italian's eyes,
Sunny and warm as her own blue skies;
I have talked with the Spaniard, proud and fair,
With her stately step and her haughty air;
But I turn from all of a foreign strand,
And bow to the Maid of a Mountain Land.
In the pensive hour, in the mirthful dance;
I have looked in the gay Italian's eyes,
Sunny and warm as her own blue skies;
I have talked with the Spaniard, proud and fair,
With her stately step and her haughty air;
But I turn from all of a foreign strand,
And bow to the Maid of a Mountain Land.
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |