Sunday, June 10, 2018

Scottish Poetry X

To the Nightingale
by Robert Allan

Sweetest minstrel, who at even,
Sheltered in thy leafy bower,
As the zephyrs sleep around thee,
Charm'st the balmy tranquil hour;
But when morning's beam is breaking,
And its lights around thee play,
Songster, then I list with sorrow
Thy last warblings die away.

From thy shade of fragrant blossoms
On night's ear thou pour'st thy strain,
While fond lovers, loth to leave thee,
Sigh to hear those strains again,_
And when autumn's blast, despoiling
All the sweets that deck thy spray,
Songster, then I list with sorrow
Thy last warblings die away.

Cease not yet thy song, sweet warbler,
Northy rosy bower forsake;
Lull the night to balmy slumbers,
Till the morning herald wake.
Slowly from the wild departing,
Slowly wending home my way,
Songster, then I list with sorrow.
Thy last warblings die away.

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