The poetical works of William Nicholson With a memoir by Malcolm M'L. Harper ... Fourth edition |
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THE TEAR HUNG IN HIS E'E. |
 | The poetical works of William Nicholson |  |
THE TEAR HUNG IN HIS E'E.
Oh! pale, pale rose the April morn,
My sodger lad frae me was torn;
Then honour's name was hard to dree;
The parting tear hung in his e'e.
But loud the pealing trumpet sang,
And loud the warlike cymbals clang;
Then honour's fause name ruined me,
Although the love-tear blin't his e'e.
My sodger lad frae me was torn;
Then honour's name was hard to dree;
The parting tear hung in his e'e.
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And loud the warlike cymbals clang;
Then honour's fause name ruined me,
Although the love-tear blin't his e'e.
'Twas no' his locks of amber brown,
His manly limbs in armour bound;
His gracefu' snawie archèd brow,
His dimpled cheek sae sweet to view;
Nor buddin' lips that ga'e delight,
Half shieldin' teeth of ivory white;
But 'twas his glance that ruined me,
The lovely language o' his e'e.
His manly limbs in armour bound;
His gracefu' snawie archèd brow,
His dimpled cheek sae sweet to view;
Nor buddin' lips that ga'e delight,
Half shieldin' teeth of ivory white;
But 'twas his glance that ruined me,
The lovely language o' his e'e.
Now he has found a foreign grave,
Far, far ayont the roaring wave,
Within yon luckless ravaged land,
Wi' thousands on Corunna's strand.
In fancying sleep, how aft I've seen
His rising grave that grows sae green,
Then starting, waked wi' tearfu' e'e;
For Oh! he's cauld and far frae me.
Far, far ayont the roaring wave,
Within yon luckless ravaged land,
Wi' thousands on Corunna's strand.
In fancying sleep, how aft I've seen
His rising grave that grows sae green,
Then starting, waked wi' tearfu' e'e;
For Oh! he's cauld and far frae me.
Nae mair the flowers in wreaths we'll twine,
Wi' which my brows he used to bin';
Nae gay attire my breast can ease;
Alas! there's nane I wish to please!
Though sair's my heart, I lo'e the pain
And sweet's the tear that's shed alane;
And dear's the pledge he ga'e to me,
That day the tear hung in his e'e.
Wi' which my brows he used to bin';
Nae gay attire my breast can ease;
Alas! there's nane I wish to please!
Though sair's my heart, I lo'e the pain
And sweet's the tear that's shed alane;
And dear's the pledge he ga'e to me,
That day the tear hung in his e'e.
| The poetical works of William Nicholson | |