The Seventh Of November

The day returns, my bosom burns,
The blissful day we twa did meet:
Tho' Winter wild, in tempest toil'd,
Ne'er simmer-sun was half sae sweet.
Than a' the pride that loads the tide,
And crosses o'er the sultry Line;
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes,
Heav'n gave me more - it made thee mine.

While day and night can bring delight,
Or Nature aught of pleasure give;
While Joys Above, my mind can move,
For Thee, and Thee alone, I live!
When that grim foe of life below
Comes in between to make us part;
The iron hand that breaks our Band,
It breaks my bliss - it breaks my heart!