The banks of the Dee - John Tait

'Twas summer, and softly the breezes were blowing,
And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree,
At the foot of a rock where the river was flowing,
I sat myself down on the banks of the Dee.
Flow on, lovely Dee, flow on, thou sweet river,
Thy banks' purest stream shall be dear to me ever,
For there first I gain'd the affection and favour
Of Jamie, the glory and pride of the Dee.

But now he 's gone from me, and left me thus mourning,
To quell the proud rebels—for valiant is he;
And, ah! there 's no hope of his speedy returning,
To wander again on the banks of the Dee.
He 's gone, hapless youth! o'er the rude roaring billows,
The kindest and sweetest of all the gay fellows,
And left me to wander 'mongst those once loved willows,
The loneliest maid on the banks of the Dee.

But time and my prayers may perhaps yet restore him,
Blest peace may restore my dear shepherd to me;
And when he returns, with such care I 'll watch o'er him,
He never shall leave the sweet banks of the Dee.
The Dee then shall flow, all its beauties displaying,
The lambs on its banks shall again be seen playing,
While I with my Jamie am carelessly straying,
And tasting again all the sweets of the Dee.

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John Tait (1748 - 1817) Scotland