It was, I well remember,
The merry Springtime, when
Young Dora in the eventide
Came singing up the Glen:
Came singing up the Glen,
Till I felt her tuneful art,
Like a subtle stream of vocal fire
Run glowing through my heart.
A fond resolve, long cherished,
Till then I might control;
Till then—but oh! that witching strain,
It drew it from my soul:
It drew it from my soul,
And she did not say me nay,
And the world of Love was all the world
To us that happy day.
I'm happy now in thinking
How happy I was then,
When tow'rds the glowing west, my love
Went homeward down the Glen:
Went homoward down the Glen,
While my comfort surer grew,
Till methought the old-faced hills all looked
As they were happy too.