Now let us take a kind farewell,—
Good night, an' joy be wi' you a'!
Though I was wayward, you were kind,
And sorrow'd when I went astray;
For O, my strains were often wild
As winds upon a winter day.
If e'er I led you from the way,
Forgie your Minstrel aince for a';
A tear fa's wi' his parting lay,-
Good night, and joy be wi' you a'!
I AINCE fell in love wi' a sweet young thing,
A bonny bit flower o' the wilder'd dell;
Her heart was as light as bird on the wing,
And her lip was as ripe as the moorland bell. She never kend aught o' the ways o' sin,
Though whiles her young heart began to doubt That wi' its ill paths she might fa' in,
But never-she never did find them out.
She oft had heard tell o' love's dear pain,
An' how sae sair as it was to dree;
She tried it and tried it again and again,
But it never could wring a tear frae her ee.
She tried it aince on a mitherless lamb
That lay in her bosom, and fed on her knee; But it turned an unpurpose and beggarly ram, And her burly lover she doughtna see.
She tried it neist on a floweret gay,
And O! it was sweet and lovely of hue;
But it droopit its head, an' fadit away,
An' left the lassie to look for a new:
An' aye she cried, O! what shall I do?
Why canna a lassie be happy her lane ?
I find my heart maun hae something to loe,
An' I dinna ken where to fix it again.
The laverock loes her musical mate,
The moorcock loes the mottled moorhen,
The blackbird lilts it early an' late,
A-wooing his love in the birken glen ;
The yammering tewit and gray curlew,
Hae ilk ane lovers around to flee,
An' please their hearts wi' their whillie-la-lu,—
But there's naething to wheedle or sing to me.
Quo' I, my sweet, my innocent flower,
The matter's as plain as plain can be,
That this heart o' mine it was made for yours,
An' yours was made for loving o' me.
The lassie she lookit me in the face,
An' a tear o' pity was in her ee,
For she thought I had lost a' sense o' grace,
An' every scrap o' fair modestye.
The lassie she thought an' thought again,
An' lookit to heaven if aught she saw,
For she thought that man was connectit wi' sin,
And that love for him was the warst of a'.
She lookit about, but she didna speak,
As lightly she trippit outower the lea;
But there was a smile on her rosy cheek,
That tauld of a secret dear to me.
The lassie gaed hame to her lanely dell,
It never was lovelier to her view;
An' aye she thought an' thought to hersell,
An' the mair she thought she began to rue-
If ilk sweet thing has a' mate o' its ain,
Wi' nature's law I e'en maun gang;
I never was made for living my lane-
The laddie was right an' I was wrang.
O Nature! we a' maun yield to thee;
Your regal sway gainsay wha can ?
For you made beauty, an' beauty maun be
The polar star o' the heart o' man.
There's beauty in man's commanding frame;
There's beauty in earth, in air, an' sea,
But there never was beauty that tongue could name
Like the smile of love in a fond young ee.
THE lift looks cauldrife i' the west,
The wan leaf wavers frae the tree,
The wind touts on the mountain's breast
A dirge o' waesome note to me.
It tells me that the days o' glee,
When summer's thrilling sweets entwined,
An' love was blinkin' in the ee,
Are a' gane by an' far behind;
That winter wi' his joyless air,
An' grizzly hue, is hasting nigh,
an' carkin' care,
In my last stage afore me lie.
Yon chill and cheerless winter sky, Troth but 'tis eereisome to see,
For ah! it points me to descry The downfa's o' futuritye.
I daurna look unto the east,
For there my morning shone sae sweet; An' when I turn me to the west,
The gloaming's like to gar me greet; The deadly hues o' snaw and sleet Tell of a dreary onward path;
Yon new moon on her cradle sheet, Looks like the Hainault scythe of death.
Kind Monitors! ye tell a tale
That oft has been my daily thought;
Yet, when it came, could nought avail,
For sad experience, dearly bought,
Tells me it was not what I ought,
But what was in my power to do,
That me behoved.
Against a world wi' courage true.
Yes I hae fought an' won the day,
Come weal, come woe, I carena by,
I am a king! My regal sway
Stretches o'er Scotia's mountains high,
And o'er the fairy vales that lie
Beneath the glimpses o' the moon,
Or round the ledges of the sky,
In twilight's everlasting noon.
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