22
My Ellen, alas! is no more.
Blow, blow, ye bleak winds o'er the hill—
Rush, ye rains of the night, down the vale,—
May a torrent inundate each rill.
And a hurricane roar in each gale:
Flash, lightnings, and pierce my poor brain!
Roll, thunders, in terrible roar!
For my Ellen, the pride of the plain,
My Ellen, alas! is no more.
Be barren each blossom of spring—
Be blighted each fruit of the earth—
Let sorrow strike every string,
And drown the wild musie of mirth!
Be each mariner wreck'd on the main—
Be his cries the long song on the shore—
For my Ellen, the pride of the plain,
My Ellen, alas! is no more.
All night let me wander alone,
Be the bat in yon cloister my friend,
Let the night-bird instruct me to moan,
And all nature in silence attend.
To me consolation is vain,
The wide world is a desolate shore,
For my Ellen, the pride of the plain,
My Ellen, alas! is no more.
My Love she's but a Lassie yet.
My love she's but a lassie yet,
My love she's but a lassie yet,
We'll let her stand a year or twa,
She'll no be half sae saucy yet.
