“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!

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VIII. Wedded Love

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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...