Seem'd the sad thought to break his heart,

And seem'd his spirits to depart,
As slowly drawing forth his bow

In plaintive numbers sad and low,
The aged, worn, and houseless man
His doleful descant thus began.

THE

LAY OF THE SCOTTISH FIDDLE.

CANTO V.

THE BURNING.

THE

LAY OF THE SCOTTISH FIDDLE.

CANTO I.

THE BURNING.

I.

THE

morn returns-but well-a-way!

Comes not for me the welcome day.
No blush of spring's fair vernal bloom,
No summer rose in rich perfume,

No flocks that in the meadows play,
Nor lowing herds that devious stray,
Nor sparkling centinel of night,
Shall ever greet my waken'd sight:
But dark my ever during way,
Shut from the golden light of day;