How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk! As underneath their fragrant shade Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace But, oh! fell death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary! Oh pale, pale now, those rosy lips ROBERT BURNS. She is far from the Land. SHE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers are round her sighing; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying. She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, Every note which he loved awaking; Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, How the heart of the minstrel is breaking. He had lived for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him. |