Ah! now soft blushes tinge her cheeks, And mantle to her neck of snow! What most I wish, yet fear to know. She starts, she trembles, and she weeps ! Her fair hands folded on her breast, A seraph in the realms of rest ! Thy thoughts belong to heaven and thee, Be held in reverence by me. O why should fate such pleasure have, Life's dearest bonds untwining ? Or why sae sweet a flower as love, Depend on fortune's shining. This warld's wealth when I think on, Its pride, and a’ the lave o't; O why should fate, fc. Her een sae bonnie blue betray, How she repays my passion ; But prudence is he o'erward aye, She talks o'rank and fashion. O why should fate, &c. O wha can prudence think upon, And sic a lassie by him? And sae in love as I am ? cbarisalo why should fate, fc. ! sai quaerbitan How blest the humble cottar's fate! He woos his simple dearie ; ... O why should fate, fc. Where is my Owen, where is my true love! O saw ye the shepherd that's dearest to me? O art thou not eager thy Mary to see? Detains o'er the mountains my Owen from me, - And answer thy Owen is constant to thee. Fain would I think so sad when we parted. Appear’d the dear shepherd with tears in his eyes; Pale was his cheek too, but many have smarted From treachery hidden in true love's disguise. For men 'tis most certain were ever false-hearted, And those who adore them, alas, they despise ! But, Oh! do not grieve me, still kindly deceive me, And tell me that Owen for Mary still sighs. Heavens, who comes yonder? ah ! 'tis my Owen, And smiling he hastens his Mary to greet! His tender impatience each eager step shewing, To which my fond heart gives an answering beat, Now, foolish tears, wherefore, why thus are ye dowing, My Owen will fancy I grieve when we meet, No, he'll never leave me, no never deceive me, O! heaven, those kind glances! my joy is complete. LXXXI. A TYROLESE SONG OF LIBERTY* Merrily every bosom boundeth, Merrily oh! merrily oh! Merrily oh! merrily oh! Shed more splendour, Shine more tender, Merrily oh! merrily oh! This song is adapted to the Tyrolese national air, the words by Thomas Moore, Esg. Wearily every bosom pineth, Wearily oh! wearily oh! Where the bond of slavery twineth, Wearily oh! wearily oh! There the warrior's dart Hath no fleetness, There the maiden's heart Hath no sweetness, Every flower of life declineth, Wearily oh! wearily oh ! Cheerily then from hill and valley, Cheerily oh! cheerily oh! Like your native fountains sally, Cheerily oh! cheerily oh! If a glorious death Won by bravery, Sigh'd in slavery, Cheerily oh! cheerily oh! |