O mony a jimp an' gentle dame, In jewell'd pomp was there; But she was first among them a', In peerless beauty rare!
Her bosom is a holy shrine, Unstain'd by mortal sin, An' spotless as the snaw-white foam, On the breast o' the siller linn.
Her voice--hae ye heard the goudspink's note, By bowery glen or brake? Or listen'd ye e'er to the mermaid's lay, By sea or mountain lake?
Hae ye dreamt ye heard, i' the bowers o' heaven, The angel's melodie? Or fancied ye listen'd the sang o' the spheres As they swung on their path on hie?
Far sweeter to me was her lay o' love, At the gloamin' hour yestreen; An', oh! were I king o' the warld wide, I would mak' that maiden my queen.
Oh! blessing on thee, land Of love and minstrel song; For Freedom found a dwelling-place Thy mountain cliffs among! And still she loves to roam Among thy heath-clad hills; And blend her wild-wood harp's sweet strain With the voice of mountain rills.
Her song is on the gale, Her step upon the wold; And morning diamonds brightly gem Her braided locks of gold. Far up the pine-wood glen, Her sylph-like form is seen, By hunter in the hazy dawn, Or wandering bard at e'en.
My own dear native home, The birthplace of the brave, O never may thy soil be trod By tyrant or by slave! Then, blessing on thee, land Of love and minstrel song; For Freedom found a dwelling-place, Thy mountain cliffs among!
We part,--yet wherefore should I weep, From faithless thing like thee to sever? Or let one tear mine eyelids steep, While thus I cast thee off for ever? I loved thee--need I say how well? Few, few have ever loved so dearly; As many a sleepless hour can tell, And many a vow breath'd too sincerely.
But late, beneath its jetty lash, I loved to mark thy blue eyes' splendour, Which wont, all witchingly, to flash On me its light so soft and tender; Now, from that glance I turn away, As if its thrilling gaze could wound me; Though not, as once, in love's young day, When thoughtless passion's fetters bound me.
The dimpling smile, with sweetness fraught, The bosom, 'mid its snow, upheaving; Who, that had seen them, could have thought That things so fair could be deceiving? The moon, the sky, the wave, the wind, In all their fitful moods of changing, Are nought to wavering woman's mind, For ever shifting, ever ranging!