XXVI

There 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 nightingale Let itself in upon him. Surely, Lord! Before whom psaltery and clarichord, Concentual with saintly song, prevail, There lurks some subtle sorcery, to Thee And heaven akin, in each woe-burning air! Land of the Leal, and Bonnie Bessie Lee, And Home, 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.