The Trysting Tree.
[Alex. Laing.—Here printed for the first time. Air, "The bonniest lass in a' the warld."]
The evening sun has closed the day,
An' silence sleeps on hill an' plain;
The yellow moon is on her way
Wi' a' her glinting starry train.
The moment dear to love an' me—
The happy moment now is near,
When by our lonely trysting tree,
I'll meet my lov'd Eliza dear.
Where mild the vernal mornings rise,
An' meek the summer e'enings fa';
Where soft the breeze of autumn sighs,
An' light the blasts o' winter blaw;
Where Keithock winds her wavy stream,
By birken tree an' blooming thorn;
Of love an' bliss we fondly dream,
Till often dawns the early morn.
Her voice like warbled music sweet,
Would lead the minstrels of the grove;
Her form, where a' the graces meet,
Would melt the caldest heart to love;
Her wistfu' look, an' winning smile,
So sweetly fain, so chastely gay,
Would sorrow's mirkest hour beguile,
And chase the deepest grief away.
My lov'd Eliza! wert thou mine!
My ain endear'd—endearing wife,
How blest! around thy heart to twine,
In a' the changing scenes of life:
Though beauty, fancy, rapture, flies
When age his chilling touch imparts;
Yet time, while breaking other ties,
Will closer bind our hands and hearts.