The curlew wheeling o'er the height
Hath touched a softer note to-night;
I hear it calling in its flight,
Helen, Helen!
The sad-toned burn irom yon hillside
Sends my fond secret floating wide,
And whispers to the white-lipped tide,
Helen, Helen!
The sheep are bleating on the fell,
The night-wind chimes the heather-bell,
All music moves to one sweet spell,
Helen, Helen!
That spell hath sway within my breast,
And moves me to its one behest;
Oh, gird me for some goodly quest,
Helen, Helen!
For brooding thought makes young hearts sore;
And I have lingered by the shore,
All weary for the passing o'er,
Helen, Helen!
But life to me is not so lone,
And death to me hath darker grown,
Since on my path thy presence shone,
Helen, Helen!
So 'mong the hills I dream my dream.
Under the starlight's wandering gleam,
And all around the voices seem,
Helen, Helen!
The curlew now is nestled still;
The sheep are silent on the hill;
But aye the burn goes singing shrill,
Helen, Helen!