XXVI.
TTHERE are three bonnie Scottish melodies,So native to the music of my soul,That of its humours they seem prophecies.The ravishment of Chaucer was less whole,Less perfect, when the April nightingaleLet itself in upon him. Surely, Lord!Before whom psaltery and clarichord,Concentual with saintly song, prevail,There lurks some subtle sorcery, to TheeAnd heaven akin, in each woe-burning air!Land of the Leal, andBonnie Bessie Lee,AndHome, sweet Home, the lilt of love’s despair.Now, in remembrance even, the feelings speak,For lo! a shower of grace is on my cheek.
TTHERE are three bonnie Scottish melodies,So native to the music of my soul,That of its humours they seem prophecies.The ravishment of Chaucer was less whole,Less perfect, when the April nightingaleLet itself in upon him. Surely, Lord!Before whom psaltery and clarichord,Concentual with saintly song, prevail,There lurks some subtle sorcery, to TheeAnd heaven akin, in each woe-burning air!Land of the Leal, andBonnie Bessie Lee,AndHome, sweet Home, the lilt of love’s despair.Now, in remembrance even, the feelings speak,For lo! a shower of grace is on my cheek.
TTHERE are three bonnie Scottish melodies,So native to the music of my soul,That of its humours they seem prophecies.The ravishment of Chaucer was less whole,Less perfect, when the April nightingaleLet itself in upon him. Surely, Lord!Before whom psaltery and clarichord,Concentual with saintly song, prevail,There lurks some subtle sorcery, to TheeAnd heaven akin, in each woe-burning air!Land of the Leal, andBonnie Bessie Lee,AndHome, sweet Home, the lilt of love’s despair.Now, in remembrance even, the feelings speak,For lo! a shower of grace is on my cheek.
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