Glen Collection of printed music > Printed text > Pocket songster, or, Caledonian warbler

150 THE POCKET SONGSTER
KESPONSIVE YE WOODS.
Tune — My time, yc Muses.
Responsive, ye Avoods, wing your echoes along,
S,;X Till nature, all sad, weeping, listen my song,
^ Till flocks cease their bleating, and herds cease to
low,
And the clear winding rivulet scarce seems to flow.
For fair was the flower that once gladden'd our
plains,
Sweet rose-bud of virtue, adored by our swains ;
But fate, like a blast from the chill wintry wave,
Has laid my sweet flower in yon cold silent grave.
Her warm feeling breast did with sympathy glow,
In innocence pure as the new mountain snow ;
Her face was more fair than the mild apple bloom ;
Her voice sweet as hope whispering pleasure to
come.
O Mary, my love ! wilt thou never return !
'Tis thy William why calls — burst the bands of thy
urn !
Together we'll wander — poor wretch, how I rave !
My Mary lies low in the lone silent grave.
Yon tall leafy planes throw a deep solemn shade
O'er the dear holy spot where my Mary is laid,
Lest the light wanton sunbeams obtrude on the
gloom
That lorn-love -and friendship have wove round her
tomb. ' - ^ ■ - •