The lay of the Scottish fiddle : a tale of Havre de Grace

The morn returns—but well-a-way!
Comes not for me the welcome day.
No blush of spring's fair vernal bloom,
No summer rose in rich perfume,
No flocks that in the meadows play,
Nor lowing herds that devious stray,
Nor sparkling centinel of night,
Shall ever greet my waken'd sight.
But dark my ever during way,
Shut from the golden light of day;

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I know nor sun, nor star, nor moon,
Nor midnight from the blaze of noon.
The captive in his dungeon dark,
Preserves of hope a brilliant spark,
Which like some mild benignant star,
Beckons the trembler from afar,
To happy scenes of dear delight,
To sunshine, liberty, and light.

But I, no such fair vision see,
The torch of hope burns not for me;
In a dark world, aye doom'd to roam,
Without a friend, a hope, a home.

But why complain? in yonder skies,
A sure and certain refuge lies.
There, when my dark, dark course is run,
I shall behold a glorious sun;
A world ethereal, fair and bright,
And forms of uncreated light;
Spirits that glide through earth and sky,
Unseen by any mortal eye;

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And never more in darkness roam,
Without a friend, a hope, a home.

University of Virginia Library

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