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22
The Mountain-Flower.
My Love can boast a sweeter flow'r
Than can be seen in cultur’d bow'r,
Where gently falls the summer show'r
Upon the opening blossom.
This early flow'r on mountain’s side,
Bedecks the slope where streamlets glide,
In haste to meet the ocean’s tide,
Which guards its native shore.
Than can be seen in cultur’d bow'r,
Where gently falls the summer show'r
Upon the opening blossom.
This early flow'r on mountain’s side,
Bedecks the slope where streamlets glide,
In haste to meet the ocean’s tide,
Which guards its native shore.
I love to seek the Primrose pale,
That bends before the vernal gale,
Which softly breathes along the vale,
When winter’s storm is o’er.
In Primrose pale I sometimes trace
The sweetness of my Lucy’s face,
The tender heart, that stamps the grace
That blooms when roses wither.
That bends before the vernal gale,
Which softly breathes along the vale,
When winter’s storm is o’er.
In Primrose pale I sometimes trace
The sweetness of my Lucy’s face,
The tender heart, that stamps the grace
That blooms when roses wither.
The Flowers of the Forest.
I’ve heard them lilting at the ewe-milking,
Lasses a’ lilting before dawn of day;
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning,
The flowers of the forest are a’ wede away.
At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,
Lasses are lanely, and dowie, and wae!
Lasses a’ lilting before dawn of day;
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning,
The flowers of the forest are a’ wede away.
At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,
Lasses are lanely, and dowie, and wae!
