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Thy father-anything to thee!
Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace
To give new pleasure like the past,
E banks and braes and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
There simmer first unfauld her robes,
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
I clasped her to my bosom!
Flew o’er me and my dearie;
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
mony a vow and locked embrace
We tore oursels asunder;
That nipt my flower sae early!
That wraps my Highland Mary!
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kissed sae fondly!
That dwelt on me sae kindly;
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
Shall live my Highland Mary.
TO MARY IN HEAVEN
"HOU lingering star, with lessening ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,
My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
That sacred hour can I forget,
Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met
To live one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface
Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace;
Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!
Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,
O’erhung with. wild woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twined amorous round the raptured scene; The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray, Till soon, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaimed the speed of winged day.
Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care! Time but the impression stronger makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
Robert Burns 114
HE dwelt among the untrodden
And very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Is shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
SLUMBER did my spirit seal;
ASI had no human fears;
She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;
William Wordsworth 16
H what avails the sceptered race!
Ah what the form divine!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
May weep, but never see,
Walter Savage Landor
HELEN OF KIRCONNELL
WAD I were where Helen lies;
Night and day on me she cries;
On fair Kirconnell lea!
Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
And died to succor me!
O think na but my heart was sair
On fair Kirconnell lea.
As I went down the waterside,
On fair Kirconnell lea;