 | The lay of the Scottish fiddle : a tale of Havre de Grace
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[I.]
'Twas one bright morn in merry May,
When all the fields were green and gay;
When in the covert of the grove,
Blithe songsters sit, and sing of love;
When roses bloom, or ought to bloom,
And all the air is one perfume;
When on the damsel's ruddy cheek
A thousand speaking blushes break;
Whern tadpoles wriggle in the mud,
Whence learned Colles of the blood.
The rapid circulation shows,
As all the world already knows—
'Twas then, as ancient legends say,
Childe Cockburn stout, got under way
| The lay of the Scottish fiddle : a tale of Havre de Grace
| |
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