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 |
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LOVE ON THE HEATH. |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
244
LOVE ON THE HEATH.
On the heath-vestur'd hills, where I courted my Sally,
Like stars was the bloom on the cranberry stalk;
The wild birds, unknown to the throng-peopled valley,
Were all that could see us or listen our talk.
Like stars was the bloom on the cranberry stalk;
The wild birds, unknown to the throng-peopled valley,
Were all that could see us or listen our talk.
The pale yellow moss on the side of the mountain,
Far softer than velvet, invited our stay;
And there by the rock, from whose foot gush'd the fountain,
We, innocent, lov'd the sweet moments away.
Far softer than velvet, invited our stay;
And there by the rock, from whose foot gush'd the fountain,
We, innocent, lov'd the sweet moments away.
How oft she would say, when sat happy together,
“'Tis thee—and thee only I ever can love!”
With breath far more sweet than the bloom on the heather,
Her eyes far more comely than those of the dove.
“'Tis thee—and thee only I ever can love!”
With breath far more sweet than the bloom on the heather,
Her eyes far more comely than those of the dove.
How oft had she vowed, while we walked o'er the rushes,
With me, and me only she'd wander so far,
Then bent down her head with such beautiful blushes,—
'Twas Modesty's hand that had painted them there.
With me, and me only she'd wander so far,
Then bent down her head with such beautiful blushes,—
'Twas Modesty's hand that had painted them there.
245
On the heath thus we lov'd, and our love so delicious—
If Heaven e'er bless'd any mortals below,
It gave them such moments, unknown to the vicious,
Which only in innocent bosoms can glow!
If Heaven e'er bless'd any mortals below,
It gave them such moments, unknown to the vicious,
Which only in innocent bosoms can glow!
But oh! how the pleasures of mortals are clouded,
For Sally the heather-bells blossom no more!
With the cold robe of death my charmer is shrouded,
And I on the heath must behold her no more!
For Sally the heather-bells blossom no more!
With the cold robe of death my charmer is shrouded,
And I on the heath must behold her no more!
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |