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When I rov'd a young Highlander o'er the dark heath, And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morven of snow! To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below; Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear, And rude as the rocks, where my infancy grew, No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear; Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred on you? G.G. Byron (from "When I rov'd a young Highlander") |
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31/08/2000 Last modified - 9/12/00 |
