SONGS.
THE ROSE OF ALLANDALE.
The morn was fair, the skies was clear,
No breath came o'er the sea,
When Mary left her Highland cot,
And wander'd forth with me.
Tho' flowers deck'd the the mountain side,
And fragrance fill'd the vale;—
By far the sweetest flower there
Was the rose of Allandale.
Where'er I wander'd east or west;
Though fate began to low'r—
A solace still was she to me,
In sorrow's lonely hour.
When tempest's lash'd our gallant bark,
And rent her shiv'ring sail—
One maiden form withstood the storm,
'Twas the rose of Allandale.
And when my sever'd lips were parch'd,
On Afric's burning sand,
She whisper'd hopes of happiness,
And tales of distant land.
My life has been a wilderness,
Unbliss'd by fortune's gale—
Had not link'd my lot to her's,
The Rose of Allandale.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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