Last night, in yonder hawthorn dell,
There came o'er me a wondrous spell;
The moon shone bright on cliff and stream,
And a fairy rode on every beam.
The Queen sat on a hazel bough,
And merrily danced the elves below;
Their music the love-lorn zephyr breeze
Kissing the coy-leaved aspen trees.
And there were arch-eyed beauties flying,
And tiny lovers round them sighing,
And knights in tourney strove, I ween,
To win a smile from the elfin Queen.
The squirrel their mossy table spread
With the filbert brown and the strawberry red,
And mystic healths in the sweetest dew
They quaffed from cups of the harebell blue.
A fair fay took me by the hand,
"Come, mortal, join our merry band,
Flowers ever fresh for thee we'll twine,
For thee shall flow our rarest wine."
And as she spoke a dreamy calm
Stole o'er each sense like sleep's sweet balm, But just then broke the morning grey,
And the pageant swept like mist away.
Fair are thy father's wide domains,
None fairer in the north countrie;
There wealth abounds and pleasure reigns,
But you have left them all for me.
Strong in love's faith, your lot you've cast
With mine, for grief or happiness-
Come fortune's smile, or care's cold blast-
My own, my winsome Bess.
With thee, my soul's pulse every day
Will yield its meed of fresh delight;
The fleet-winged hours will glide away,
Like brook o'er gold-sands purling bright.
My only thought—my chiefest joy-
Will be, how best I can express
The love which glows without alloy
For thee, my winsome Bess.
Rude is our forest cot; but thou,
Like flower transplanted to the wild,
Will shed around all things, I trow,
Refinement's bloom, and odour mild.
No task can ever irksome be,
If sweetened by thy kind caressLabour will seem but pastime free, With thee, my winsome Bess.
In Indian-summer's dreamy haze,
The Humber's banks we'll oft explore,
And people them with troops of fays,
By fancy conjured from our shore.
The kelpie shall brood o'er the pool,
The mermaid comb her dripping tressEach grove with weird-shapes shall be fullMy own, my winsome Bess.
When winter brings long nights and drear,
And blythely glows our pine-lit hearth,
Thou❜lt sing the songs I love so dear—
The songs of our romantic North.
The lays will waft us o'er the main—
Once more Ben-Lomond's heath I'll press-
Pull Cowden-Knowes' gold-broom again—
With thee, my winsome Bess.
And I will tell thee many a tale
Of fortress gray, and war-famed ground
Legends, which erst in Liddesdale,
Thrilled our young nerves like trumpet's sound. How moist thy clear blue eye will turn,
At Mary Stuart's sad duress
How flash at name of Bannockburn!
My loyal, winsome Bess.
Thus gladsomely our quiet years
Will flit away with scanty care;
Our sun undimmed save by the tears
Which fall to every mortal's share.
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