A Song.

AIR, “JESSIE O' DUMBLAIN.’
Calm Eve hangs her shades o'er yon wood-crowned blue mountain,
Grey mists slowly wreathe o'er the upland and dale,
The moon, rising cloudless, just silvers the fountain
That lulls to soft slumbers “the flow'r of the vale.”

Than the blooming young rose-bud her cheeks are more bonnie;
Compared with her lips, the red coral is pale;
Far sweeter, and fairer, and dearer than ony.
Is lovely young Mira, “the flow'r of the vale.”

How modest—how beauteous the lily's pale blossom!
Delicious the odours its petals exhale!
Yet a flow'ret, enraptured, I've clasped to my bosom,
More modest—more fragrant—“the rose of the vale.”

O soft on yon hill Cynthia's silver beam slumbers,
And the wood-dove's coo tenderly floats on the gale,
Yet softer her glance and far gentler the numbers
That flow from the lips of this “rose of the vale.”

When sickness or age every grace shall deflower,
Her lovelier mind o'er their touch will prevail;
Such sweetness, such goodness, such ravishing power,
Blend alone in my Mira, “the flow'r of the vale.”

In some lone little cot, from the gay world secluded,
O what would the scorn of the wealthy avail,
While I clasped the sweet angel who never deluded
The heart that now pants for “the rose of the vale?”