 | The Harvest |  |
At length the blithe rout crouding press
Around the last stalks of the ness.
Still customs of the times of old
Sway o'er the peasant's bosom hold,
Deriv'd from those who never more
Shall swell the merry, final roar;
Who feel alike—laid cold and low—
The wintry storm, and summer glow!
But this unthought of—each is fain
The last prophetic cut to gain,
For who, 'tis said, comes off with this,
Shall taste the first of wedded bliss.
Fast throng the youthful and the fair—
Now, Roddam's Maid, exert thee there!
Another year bloom not in vain;
On! and secure yon mountain swain!
The wiley lass behind the rout
Stood, till they rais'd the merry shout,
Then stooping cut her rip conceal'd,
And wav'd in triumph o'er the field!
Laughing they view'd—but ah! 'twas vain;
Not she first wedded of the train.
Already in Sylvander's soul
The matrimonial raptures roll;
Before to-morrow's dawn be light,
Coldstream shall hear the nuptial rite;
And Tweed's pure waters murmur by
Beneath the bedding revelry!
Around the last stalks of the ness.
77
Sway o'er the peasant's bosom hold,
Deriv'd from those who never more
Shall swell the merry, final roar;
Who feel alike—laid cold and low—
The wintry storm, and summer glow!
But this unthought of—each is fain
The last prophetic cut to gain,
For who, 'tis said, comes off with this,
Shall taste the first of wedded bliss.
Fast throng the youthful and the fair—
Now, Roddam's Maid, exert thee there!
Another year bloom not in vain;
On! and secure yon mountain swain!
The wiley lass behind the rout
Stood, till they rais'd the merry shout,
Then stooping cut her rip conceal'd,
And wav'd in triumph o'er the field!
Laughing they view'd—but ah! 'twas vain;
Not she first wedded of the train.
Already in Sylvander's soul
The matrimonial raptures roll;
Before to-morrow's dawn be light,
Coldstream shall hear the nuptial rite;
78
Beneath the bedding revelry!
| The Harvest | |