GLENCOE.
Lay by the harp, sing not that song,
Although so very sweet;
It is a song of other years,
For thee and me unmeet.
Thy head is pillowed on my arm,
Thy heart beats close to mine;
Methinks it were unjust to heaven,
If we should now repine.
I must not weep, you must not sing
That thrilling song again,—
