 | Areytos or songs and ballads of the South |  |
139
SING ME THAT SONG.
Sing me that song, that ancient song,
That won mine ear in boyhood's hours,
And made me come, and linger long,
A happy listener in thy bowers;
Dear were the simple notes that rose
In artless triumph through the grove,
Soft-stealing as the brooklet flows,
Yet every murmur steep'd in love!
That won mine ear in boyhood's hours,
And made me come, and linger long,
A happy listener in thy bowers;
Dear were the simple notes that rose
In artless triumph through the grove,
Soft-stealing as the brooklet flows,
Yet every murmur steep'd in love!
Thou had'st no cunning, wanton strains,
To strike and startle, as if Toil
Had brought to music Labor's pains—
Hard labor in unfruitful soil—
But from thy lips, as from the heart,
The unconscious strain in music flow'd,
As brooklets from the greenwood dart,
And ripple o'er the pebbly road.
To strike and startle, as if Toil
Had brought to music Labor's pains—
Hard labor in unfruitful soil—
But from thy lips, as from the heart,
The unconscious strain in music flow'd,
As brooklets from the greenwood dart,
And ripple o'er the pebbly road.
Sing me that strain, that ancient strain,
That told of love on Scotia's hills:
Of love that did not once complain,
Though still the hapless love that kills!
Once more that tale of simple wo:
The maiden sinking to the grave,
And he, for whom she perish'd so,
Unconscious that he still might save!
That told of love on Scotia's hills:
Of love that did not once complain,
Though still the hapless love that kills!
Once more that tale of simple wo:
The maiden sinking to the grave,
And he, for whom she perish'd so,
Unconscious that he still might save!
| Areytos or songs and ballads of the South | |