“Were I but his own wife”

Were I but his own wife, to guard and to guide him,   ’T is little of sorrow should fall on my dear; I ’d chant my low love-verses, stealing beside him,   So faint and so tender his heart would but hear; I ’d pull the wild blossoms from valley and highland;   And there at his feet I would lay them all down; I ’d sing him the songs of our poor stricken island,   Till his heart was on fire with a love like my own. There ’s a rose by his dwelling—I ’d tend the lone treasure,   That he might have flowers when the summer would come; There ’s a harp in his hall—I would wake its sweet measure,   For he must have music to brighten his home. Were I but his own wife, to guide and to guard him,   ’T is little of sorrow should fall on my dear; For every kind glance my whole life would award him—   In sickness I ’d soothe and in sadness I ’d cheer. My heart is a fount welling upward for ever,   When I think of my true-love, by night or by day; That heart keeps its faith like a fast-flowing river   Which gushes for ever and sings on its way. I have thoughts full of peace for his soul to repose in,   Were I but his own wife, to win and to woo— Oh, sweet, if the night of misfortune were closing,   To rise like the morning star, darling for you!