 | English melodies |  |
73
THE HAIL IS BEATING.
The hail is beating 'gainst the door,
The lightning flash is in the sky;
And darkly o'er the dismal moor
The awful thunder rolleth by:
But Love cares not for wet or dry;
I'll out, and breast the driving storm—
Content if at the last I spy
My little Mary's beauteous form.
The lightning flash is in the sky;
And darkly o'er the dismal moor
The awful thunder rolleth by:
But Love cares not for wet or dry;
I'll out, and breast the driving storm—
Content if at the last I spy
My little Mary's beauteous form.
She'll beam like morn from out the gloom,
She'll cast the wet cloak from my breast,
Her cheek to mine will lend its bloom,
Her lip to mine be fondly press'd!
Flash out, ye fiery swords of night,
Ye light the path my foot would tread,
But guide me to my love's dear sight,
And howl, ye tempests, over head.
She'll cast the wet cloak from my breast,
Her cheek to mine will lend its bloom,
Her lip to mine be fondly press'd!
Flash out, ye fiery swords of night,
Ye light the path my foot would tread,
But guide me to my love's dear sight,
And howl, ye tempests, over head.
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