THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS.

                TUNE—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 summer-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 !