Six songs , opus 37

Fluttered near a lovely thought;
It set my heart a-swinging;
Out I reached, 'twould not be caught,
Yet still I heard it singing.

What it says I cannot tell;
Than thought there's nothing fleeter.
Off it flew, but I know well
That only love is sweeter.

Out of the past comes a memory stealing,
Fain would it rob me of peace and of rest,
Starts in my heart and the old Angelus pealing, 
As when thy sould winged its way to the Blest.

Heart of my Sorrow, fair are the roses,
Guarding with love the lone grave where thou art!
'Tis thy white soul that their fragrance discloses
Breathing a prayer for my sorrowing heart.

There's a ship lies off Dunvegan,
An' she longs to spread her wings,
An' through a' the day she beckons,
An' thro' a' the nicht she sings!

"Come awa', awa', my darlin',
Come awa', awa', wi' me, and fly
To a land that is fairer, kinder,
Than the moors and the hills o' Skye.

Oh, my heart! My weary, weary heart!
There's ne'er a day goes by 
But it turns hame to Dunvegan,
By the storm-beat hills o' Skye.

I hae wandered miles fu' many,
I hae mark'd fu' many a change,
I hae won me gear in plenty,
In this land sae fair, but strange.

Yet at times a spell is on me,
I'm a child, a child once again to rin
On the hills aboon Dunvegan,
An' the kind sea shuts me in.

Oh, my heart! My weary, weary heart!
There's ne'er a day goes by 
But it turns hame to Dunvegan,
By the storm-beat hills o' Skye.

So fickle are the little winds,
One may not say they blow;
The balanced leaves, they tremble, wait
Not sure which way to go.

So fare my fancies flutt'ring soft,
As out of sleep they start;
The while they think to drift away,
They die upon my heart. 

The Ox he openeth wide the Doore,
And from the Snowe he calls her inne,
And he hath seen her Smile therefor,
Our Ladye without Sinne.
Now soone from Sleep
A Starre shall leap,
And soone arrive both King and Hinde:
Amen, Amen:
But O, the Place co'd I but finde!

The Ox hath hushed his voyce and bent
Trewe eyes of Pitty ore the Mow,
And on his lovelie Neck, forspent,
The Blessed layes her Browe.
Around her feet
Full Warme and Sweete
His bowerie Breath doth meeklie dwell:
Amen, Amen:
But sore am I with Vaine Travel!

The Ox is host in Judah stall
And Host of more than onelie one,
For close she gathereth withal
Our Lorde her littel Sonne.
Glad Hinde and King
Their Gyfte may bring,
But wo'd to-night my Teares were there,
Amen, Amen:
Between her Bosom and His hayre!

The thrush flies far from the northwind's breath,
Flies far from the land of snow
Where the cold is strong as the hand of death,
And wildly the whirlwinds blow.
But thou art sweet as the pinetree's breath
And kind as the sheltering snow
And my spirit flies to the land of death
And sings where the whirlwinds blow.