Bess the Gawkie (n.d., Stirling)/Dear is my Native Vale
For other versions of this work, see Dear is my little native vale.
DEAR IS MY NATIVE VALE.
Dear is my little native vale,
The ring-dove builds and warbles there;
Close by my cot she tells her tale,
To ev'ry passing villager;
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.
The ring-dove builds and warbles there;
Close by my cot she tells her tale,
To ev'ry passing villager;
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.
In orange groves, or myrtle bow’rs,
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours,
With my lov d lute's romantic sound;
Or crowns of living laurels weave,
For those who win the race at eve.
That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours,
With my lov d lute's romantic sound;
Or crowns of living laurels weave,
For those who win the race at eve.
The shepherd's horn at break of day,
The ballet danc'd in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay,
Sung in the silent greenwood shade;
These simple joys, that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale.
The ballet danc'd in twilight glade,
The canzonet and roundelay,
Sung in the silent greenwood shade;
These simple joys, that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale.
FINIS.