"But to please me, Cora."
"To please you, Newton, I would do anything," she replied, with a blush and a happy smile.
I stood by her side while she sang a simple old ballad, that had been taught her by my mother. The air was plaintive, and the words were quaint. By whom they were written I know not, for they are neither to be found in Allan Ramsay's "Miscellany," or any other book of Scottish songs that I have seen. Cora sang with great sweetness, and her voice awakened a flood of old memories and forgotten hopes and fears, with many a boyish aspiration, for music, like perfume, can exert a wonderful effect upon the imagination and on the memory.
THE THISTLE AND THE ROSE.
It was in old times,
When trees composed rhymes,
And flowers did with elegy flow;
In an old battle-field,
That fair flowers did yield,
A rose and a thistle did grow.
On a soft summer day,
The rose chanced to say,
"Friend thistle, I'll with you be plain;
And if you'd simply be
But united to me,
You would ne'er be a thistle again."
The thistle said, "My spears
Shield me from all fears,
While you quite unguarded remain;
And well, I suppose,
Though I were a rose,
I'd fain be a thistle again."
"Dearest friend," quoth the rose,
"You falsely suppose—
Bear witness ye flowers of the plain!—
You'd take so much pleasure
In beauty's vast treasure,
You'd ne'er be a thistle again."
The thistle, by guile,
Preferred the rose's smile
To all the gay flowers of the plain;
She threw off her sharp spears,
Unarmed she appears—
And then were united the twain.
But one cold, stormy day,
While helpless she lay,
No longer could sorrow refrain;
She gave a deep moan,
And with many an "Ohone!
Alas for the days when a Stuart filled the throne—
OH! WERE I A THISTLE AGAIN!"
Sir Nigel clapped his hands in applause, and said to the M.P.—
"Lickspittal, my boy, I consider that an anti-centralization song—but, of course, your sympathies and mine are widely apart."
"It is decidedly behind the age, at all events," said the member, laughing.
"You have a delightful voice, Cora—soft and sweet as ever," said I in her ear.
"Thanks, Cora," added Sir Nigel, patting her white shoulder with his strong embrowned hand. "Newton seems quite enchanted; but you must not seek to captivate our lancer."
"Why may I not, papa?"