XXII.
SONG.
They bid me sleep, they bid me pray,
They say my brain is warp’d[261] and wrung—
I cannot sleep on Highland brae,
I cannot pray in Highland tongue.
But were I now where Allan[262] glides,
Or heard my native Devan’s[263] tides,
So sweetly would I rest, and pray
That Heaven would close my wintry day!
’Twas thus my hair they bade me braid,
They made me to the church repair;
It was my bridal morn, they said,
And my true love would meet me there.
But woe betide the cruel guile,
That drown’d in blood the morning smile!
And woe betide the fairy dream!
I only waked to sob and scream.