Hark! Hark! Thou merry Lark! Reckless thou how I may pine; May be my care, True shall bide this heart of mine. Hark! Hark! Thou merry Lark! Reckless thou what griefs are mine; Come, relieve my heart's distress, Though in truth the pain is less, That she frown, Than if unknown She for whom I ceaseless pine. Hark! Hark! Thou merry Lark! Reckless thou how I may pine. 2 K ON SHOOTING A MOOR-HEN OFF HER NEST BY MISTAKE. THY droopit wing anes cheerful flew, Poor murder'd thing; As fate drew near, the wind did sigh, And dreary sing. Then thought some lavrock cam to rest, In safety sweet ; Or, that it was the wind that pass'd, On sightless feet. But, oh! it was nae lavrock sweet. That nod by thee wi' tender feet The dewy grun'; But, oh! it was relentless fate, The mortal gun. Thy eggs are cauld, and wat, and dead, In death's last sleep. I saw thee limping to thy bed, To mourn and weep. Thou kept them frae the wind and rain, Which thou possest; Baith bird and eggs are dead and gane, To endless rest. When thou did'st live, puir murder'd thing, Ilk dewy morn on whirring wing, Exulting sprang; Then gae'd the moors and mosses ring Wi' thy glad sang. Thy mate sits by thee, yet alane, To life's last goal; For still he makes his woeful mane, To cheer thy soul. The muirland herd was oft thy fear, Nae mair the foxes' yelp thou'lt hear, Or colly bark. The little humble daisy smiled, Wi' cheerfu' face, sae meek and mild, Now drops a tear; The heather bush waves wae and wild, Forlorn and drear. Ah, me! mayhap, in yonder vale, From hope outcast; And, shiv'ring, tells his woeful tale Unto the blast. E'en like to thine the orphan's lot, In silent gloom; The dreary winds shall hold their route Out o'er his tomb. Here, rest in peace, receive a tear, The mighty heron's cry I hear, The dark comes fast; The spark in yonder cot looks drear, Adieu! and rest. THE GOLDFINCH. Bietmar. THERE sat upon the linden-tree It saw the rose-trees grow, And thought again the thoughts of love There cherish'd long ago. A thousand years to me it seems Since by thy face I sate, Yet thus t' have been a stranger long Was not my choice, but fate: Since then I have not seen the flowers, Nor heard the bird's sweet song; My joys have all too briefly past, My griefs been all too long. |