DARK ROLLING DEE.
[_]
Tune—“Banks of the Devon.”
Dark rolling Dee, with thy heath-covered mountains,
Thy wild rugged rocks by yon black birken glen,
That claim'st thy supplies from the cold mossy fountains,
And minglest thy treasures with low-spreading Ken:
Scenes of my youth, where my wishes oft wander,
Where the traces of nature my bosom first warmed;
For low on thy banks, where thy waves sweet meander,
Spreads the low blushing rose that my fancy has charm'd.
How fain would I woo thee, sweet flower, to my bosom,
And sever thy stalk from its first native stole,
Where the kind breath of love should invite thee to blossom,
Though the chill blasts of winter around us should howl.
Beauty might fade in the days of December,
But the noon-tide of friendship around us should beam;
The fervour of youth I would fondly remember,
And shield thy sweet blossoms by Dee's winding stream.
