A LITTLE
The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o’er me and my dearie ;
For dear to me, as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary!

Wi’ mony a vow, and lock’d embrace,
Qur parting was fu’ tender ;

And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;

But, oh! fell Death’s untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early ! —

PAINTER.

Now green’s the sod, and cauld’s the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!

Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kiss’d sae fondly !
And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust
That heart that lo’ed me dearly —
But still within my bosom’s core
Shall live my Highland Mary!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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A LITTLE PAINTER,

OS an airy fairy painter painted in the dawn and dew,

Painted in the sultry noontide, painted all the summer through :
Flowers and fields and wondrous woodlands, skies at sunrise and sunset —
And, as true as fairy stories, he is painting somewhere yet!