Indexes for The Sacred Harp, 1991 Edition
188 Spring
Words:
Music:
Meter: Particular Meter: 8,8,8,8,7,7
The scattered clouds are fled at last,
The rain is gone, the winter’s past;
The lovely vernal flow’rs appear,
The warbling choirs enchant our ear.
Now, with sweetly pensive moan,
Coos the turtle dove alone.
The voice of my beloved sounds,
While o’er the mountain top he bounds;
He flies exulting o’er the hills,
And all my soul with transport fills.
Gently doth he chide my stay.
Rise, my soul and come away.
The rain is gone, the winter’s past;
The lovely vernal flow’rs appear,
The warbling choirs enchant our ear.
Now, with sweetly pensive moan,
Coos the turtle dove alone.
The voice of my beloved sounds,
While o’er the mountain top he bounds;
He flies exulting o’er the hills,
And all my soul with transport fills.
Gently doth he chide my stay.
Rise, my soul and come away.