Classic Poem

O! Pale , pale raise the April morn,
My sodger lad frae me was torn;
Then honour's name was hard to dree;
The parting tear hung in his e'e,
But loud the pealing trumpet sang,
And loud the warlike cymbals clang;
Then honour's fause name ruin'd me,
Altho' the love-tear blin't his e'e.

'Twas no' his locks of amber brown,
His manly limbs in armour bound;
His gracefu' snawie arched brow,
His dimpl'd cheek sae sweet to view,
Nor buddin' lips, that ga'e delight,
Ha'f shieldin' teeth of ivory white; —
But 'twas his glance that ruin'd me —
The lovely language o' his e'e.

Now he has found a foreign grave,
Far, far ayont the roaring wave,
Within yon luckless ravaged land,
Wi' thousands on Corunna's strand.
In fancying sleep, how aft I've seen
His rising grave that grows sae green,
Then starting, wak'd wi' tearfu' e'e!
For O, he's cauld and far frae me.

Nae mare the flowers in wreaths we'll twine,
Wi' which my brows he us'd to bin';
Nae gay attire my breast can ease;
Now, 'las, there's nane I wish to please!
Tho' sair's my heart, I lo'e the pain,
And sweet's the tear that's shed alane —
And dear's the pledge he ga'e to me,
That day the tear hung in his e'e.