 | Lyra Pastoralis |  |
On the Death of Morven
MY SKYE TERRIER
No more, no more that cheery strain,
From throat that never felt a chain,—
Thy gladsome bark and bound will greet
The echo of my homeward feet,
In that dear kingdom where I reign.
From throat that never felt a chain,—
Thy gladsome bark and bound will greet
The echo of my homeward feet,
In that dear kingdom where I reign.
No more my shadow in the lane
Wilt thou be seen, on hill or plain,
Or in the wonted village street—
No more, no more!
Wilt thou be seen, on hill or plain,
Or in the wonted village street—
No more, no more!
But still thy memory will remain,
Bright ways, soft eyes, affection fain,
As when my knee was thy retreat,
And I would stroke and pet thee, sweet,—
My fond caress to feel again
No more, no more!
Bright ways, soft eyes, affection fain,
As when my knee was thy retreat,
And I would stroke and pet thee, sweet,—
My fond caress to feel again
No more, no more!
| Lyra Pastoralis | |