THE RED RED ROSE.
SONG VIII.
1
Were my true love yon violet,
So fragrant-breath'd, in garden green;
And I the morn-arousing lark,
I'd nestle in its breast at e'en;
There slumb'ring in my balmy bow'r,
My plumes rain'd bright with honey weet,
I'd wake with perfume on my wings,
And incense heaven with earthly sweet.
2
Were my true love yon golden gean,
Hung sunward mid the morning dew;
And I a thrush to spread my plumes,
Fond o'er't and tend it where it grew;
Drop-ripe I'd bear it far away,
To some sweet spot untrod by men;
Then sow't and cherish't 'neath my breast,
And wake the comely plant agen.
3
“O were my love yon red red rose,
Gay flow'ring o'er the castle wa',
And I a drop of gloaming dew,
Into its bonnie breast to fa';
O there beyond expression blest
I'd feast on fragrance all the night,
Seal'd in the silk saft faulds to rest
Till fley'd away by morning light.”
4
How can I in my peasant cap,
Hope for to place yon princely gem,
Or tryste to wooe the twilight star,
New woke on heaven's diadem;
For I am but a stripling tree,
Placed on a parched plain to pine:
And my love is a sainted flower,
By Pilgrim dropp'd on holy shrine.
