But yet my e'e can dimly see, amid its gloamin' hour,
The shadow of a joyous dream,—the semblance of a flower,
An' sic a flower as only blessed the bowers of Paradise
When Eden lay beneath the ray o' smiling infant skies.
O saftly play, ye breezes play, around that winsome flower,
And gently fa', ye dew drops fa' abune her summer bower;
For ne'er since bonnie castle Doune was biggit on yon brae
Did e'er ye fan a fairer flower than lovely Henney Gray.
The Thistle.
[James Macdonald.—Here printed for the first time.]
Loo'st thou the thistle that blooms on the mountain,
And decks the fair bosom o' Scotland's green howes;
Loo'st thou the flow'ret o' Liberty's fountain,
The emblem o' friendship, that guards as it grows?
The wee lamb may sleep 'neath its shade, wi' its mither,
The maukin may find 'neath its branches a lair;
And birds o' ilk feather may there flock thegither,
But wae to the wretch wha our thistle wad tear!
Loo'st thou the thistle? the broad leaves it weareth
Are gemm'd o'er wi' pearls o' morning's sweet dew;—
Lo! on ilk dew-drop a dear name it beareth—
The name of a freeman o' leal heart and true.
Kenn'st thou the story o' proud fame and glory,
That's tauld by ilk spike o' its bristled array?
Nae wonder our thistle wi' grandeur is hoary—
It's auld as creation—it's new as the day!
Loo'st thou the thistle? the rose canna peer it,
Nae shamrock can smile wi' sae gaudy an air,
The lily maun hide a' its beauty, when near it,
The star-flag is bonnie—the thistle is mair.
True to the thistle, I'll neer lo'e anither,
Whatever my station, wherever I be
Its love in my bosom no blighting can wither,
Auld Scotland's ain darling, I'll lo'e till I dee.
Here's to ilk pillar that bides by the thistle!
Lang may his roof-tree be kept frae decay;
Lang may the voice o' happiness whistle
In glee round his dwallin' by nicht and by day.
Here's to the banners that wave o'er the ocean,
The rose of old England, the brave and the free,
The Shamrock that raises green Erin's devotion,
The Thistle o' Scotland—hurrah for the three!
