Down in the fairest of fairy dells, in sight of the blue sea's breast,
When Uncle Roy who had sailed to India, many long years before,
Gone from the towers of Edinburgh, and made piles of golden store,
Sent for me all in a hurry and ere long he died on my breast,
And far from the land of the heather we laid him gently to rest.
And then came the fever to me, sick and weak at the point of death,
Raving for Aimee--they told me 'twas Aimee at every breath.
Weeks passed and I woke again one day to breath as it were new air.
The crisis over; now health, life, love and myself a millionaire.
But Victor Ellis came back no more, I was changed into Victor Roy.
Yes, a king with a crown of gold, but the gold was a broken toy,
For a letter lay by me from England, a strange hand-writing to me,
Telling me Aimee, my star of hope, was lost in the treacherous sea.
A party went boating one eve, and the pleasure boat struck the bar,
And before any help could be given, Aimee had floated out far.
Every available thing was done, that landsman or sailor could try,
So fell the burning shower of words that met my bewildered eye.
Oh the night at noon, I have wondered oft how much the heart will bear,
As strand after strand of the toughened cord, strains with the weight and
wear.
I felt I must fly, weak as I was, to where she was lying; perhaps
'Twas a merciful Providence after all, that I took a relapse.
Oh, the weary months that crawled slowly by at a tortoise creeping pace,
I seeming to hear the dash of the waves, that hid a beloved face.
Time passed, and I learnt that the roaring sea was not the treacherous
thing.
'Twas not the dumb wave, but a living man that turned to Winter my Spring,
And Aimee had married another and sought the Australian shore.
She must have thought I was dead, Heaven help me, betwixt us ocean's roar.
I have sometimes wondered if gold is ever aught but a curse,