The Book of Scottish Song/The heath this night

The heath this night.

[Sir Walter Scott.—From "The Lady of the Lake."]

The heath this night must be my bed,
The bracken curtain for my head,
My lullaby the warder's tread,
⁠Far, far, from love and thee, Mary;
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid,
My couch may be my bloody plaid,
My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid!
⁠It will not waken me, Mary!

I may not, dare not, fancy now
The grief that clouds thy lovely brow,
I daire not think upon thy vow,
⁠And all it promised me, Mary,
No fond regret must Norman know;
When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe,
His heart must be like bended bow,
⁠His foot like arrow free, Mary.

A time will come with feeling fraught
For, if I fall in battle fought,
Thy hapless lover's dying thought
⁠Shall be a thought on thee, Mary?
And if return'd from conquer'd foes,
How blythely will the evening close,
How sweet the linnet sing repose,
⁠To my young bride and me, Mary!

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