Chapter 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.