THE SECRET.
SONG XIV.
1
At eve I go on pilgrim tour,
To yon balmy budding bow'r,
To see green Nithsdale's fairest flow'r,
Fresh in beauty's blossom;
My face is flush'd with true-love flame,
Yet I'll not tell my fair one's name.
2
Sore I hate the tell-tale light,
Dear I love the grim midnight,
Clasping of my heart's delight
Until the morning waken;
Ruddy on her cheeks of shame,
Yet will I secret hold her name.
3
She has oxen, houses, land,
'Neath her father's high command;
And a fair and willing hand,
To plight the sacred token
Of a spouse's dearest claim;
Yet I'll not tell my fair one's name.
