The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
 |
 |
SONG.
|
|
|
|
 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
210
SONG.
[The birks may wave, the heath may bloom]
The birks may wave, the heath may bloom,
The lasses trip the mountains o'er,
And deck their breasts with blossom'd broom,
But I can touch my harp no more.
The lasses trip the mountains o'er,
And deck their breasts with blossom'd broom,
But I can touch my harp no more.
The lambs may skip, the fishes sport,
And glitter in their woodland rills,
But I no more the muse can court,
Where thyme perfumes the purple hills.
And glitter in their woodland rills,
But I no more the muse can court,
Where thyme perfumes the purple hills.
There oft my sweet Elvina sung,
And softly trill'd the rural lay,
Till raptures in my bosom sprung,
“As pleasure wing'd my hours away.”
And softly trill'd the rural lay,
Till raptures in my bosom sprung,
“As pleasure wing'd my hours away.”
But Nature now is fresh in vain;
The richest gifts to me are poor,
For bliss can never come again,
And I can touch my harp no more.
The richest gifts to me are poor,
For bliss can never come again,
And I can touch my harp no more.
No more with joy can I behold
Elvina, deck'd with heather bloom;
The hand which oft I press'd is cold,
The heart that lov'd me in the tomb.
Elvina, deck'd with heather bloom;
The hand which oft I press'd is cold,
The heart that lov'd me in the tomb.
But still she lives in realms of day,
Far distant from a world of pain:
Oh! could I soar to her away,
Then would I touch my harp again.
Far distant from a world of pain:
Oh! could I soar to her away,
Then would I touch my harp again.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |