Come, counsel me, my comrades,
While dizzy fancy lingers,
Did ever flute become, lads,
The motion of such fingers?
Did ever isle or Mor-hir,[137]
Or see or hear, before her,
Such gracefulness, adore her
Yet, woes me, how concealing
From her I 've wedded, dare I?
Still, homeward bound, I tarry,
And Jeanie's eye is weary,
Her truant unrevealing.
The glow of love I feel,
Not all the linns of Sheil,
Nor Cruachan's snow avail
To cool to congealing.[138]....