To wander by the green burnside, The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, The throssil whusslit in the wood, And on the knowe abune the burn In the silentness o' joy, till baith Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, That was a time, a blessed time, When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gush'd all feelings forth, Unsyllabled, unsung! I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest throchts As ye hae been to me: Thine ear as it does mine! O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west, But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot: The fount that first burst frae this heart Still travels on its way; And channels deeper, as it rins, The luve o life's young day. O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I dee, Did I but ken your heart still dream'd SPANISH. J. F. WALLER. MAGDALENA, OR THE SPANISH DUEL. NEAR the city of Sevilla, Years and years ago, Dwelt a lady in a villa Years and years ago; And her hair was black as night, And her step was light and airy When she spoke, you thought, each minute, 'Twas the trilling of a linnet; When she sang, you heard a gush Of full-voiced sweetness like a thrush; And she struck from the guitar Ringing music, sweeter far Than the morning breezes make Through the lime trees when they shake, Than the ocean murmuring o'er Pebbles on the foamy shore. How I woo'd that maiden fair, And I loved her so, Near the city of Sevilla, Years and years ago. Ay de mi! Like echoes falling Voices come at night, recalling Years and years ago. 'Twas an autumn eve; the splendour Of the day was gone, And the twilight, soft and tender, That the eye could scarce discover O'er the welkin spread, Till the blue sky, calm and holy, As Murillo paints her crescent Underneath Madonna's feet. And we sat outside the villa Where the languid evening breeze Shook out odours in a shower From oranges and citron-trees, Sang she from a romancero, How a Moorish chieftain bold Fought a Spanish caballero By Sevilla's walls of old; How they battled for a lady, Fairest of the maids of Spain, How the Christian's lance, so steady, Pierced the Moslem through the brain. Then she ceased: her black eyes, moving, 66 Flash'd, as ask'd she with a smile, Say, are maids as fair and loving, Men as faithful, in your isle?" "British maids,” I said, “are ever Woo'd not quickly, won not lightly, Trial draws the bond more tightly, Time can ne'er the knot undo." "And the men ? "Ah! dearest lady, Are-quien sabe? who can say? To make love they're ever ready, When they can and where they may; Fix'd as waves, as breezes steady Como brisas como rios, No se sabe, sabe Dios." "Are they faithful?” "Ah! quien sabe? Who can answer that they are? And I sang, in sportive strain, This song to an old air of Spain: QUIEN SABE. "The breeze of the evening that cools the hot air, The river forever glides singing along, who knows? Who knows? And away flows the river, - but whither - who knows? Let me be the breeze, love, that wanders along, Be thou to my fancy the orange in bloom, The rose by the river that gives its perfume. Would the fruit be so golden, so fragrant the rose, If no breeze and no wave were to kiss them? Who knows? |