Thou fair gift of nature (I welcome the boon),
Was 't the lark of the morning that 'woke thee so soon?
Yet I weep, thou sweet floweret! for soon, from the sky,
The lark shall repose where thy leaves wither'd lie.
Oh! if beauty could save thee, thou ne'er wouldst decay,
But, alas! soon thou 'lt perish and wither away;
And thy kindred may blossom, and blossom as fair—
Yet I 'll mourn, lonely rosebud! when thou art not there.
THE EXILE'S SONG.
Tune—"My ain Countrie."
Oh! why left I my hame,
Why did I cross the deep?
Oh! why left I the land
Where my forefathers sleep?
I sigh for Scotia's shore,
And I gaze across the sea;
But I canna get a blink
O' my ain countrie!
The palm-tree waveth high,
And fair the myrtle springs,
And to the Indian maid
The bulbul sweetly sings;
But I dinna see the broom
Wi' its tassels on the lea,
Nor hear the lintie's sang
O' my ain countrie!
Oh! here no Sabbath bell
Awakes the Sabbath morn,
Nor song of reapers heard
Amang the yellow corn;
For the tyrant's voice is here,
And the wail of slaverie,
But the sun of freedom shines
In my ain countrie!
There 's a hope for every woe,
And a balm for every pain;
But the first joys o' our heart
Come never back again.
There 's a track upon the deep,
And a path across the sea,
But the weary ne'er return
To their ain countrie!