Classic Poem

Chorus

Bear my love, my addresses,
To the maid of thick tresses,
I was oft in her graces
In the braes of Glen Broom.

I am shorn of all pleasure
Being so far from thee this year,
Of black dule I've a seizure,
I my lost love deplore.

I may not dare be jolly
And my heart melancholy,
To speel braes is folly,
I'll walk fleetly no more.

My pace has gone slower
Since I'll not see my lover,
I with thee was a rover
In the wee ozier dell.

In the wood, where the ring-dove
To us sweetly did sing love,
Gowk and merle from us sleep drove,
As with joy their notes swelled.

Thou and I oft did wander,
And the rest never fand where,
Till we chose hame to dander
To the mead of the calves.

On the sky-line o' the wold there
With my arm round thy shoulder
We'd list as birds trolled there
On the tree-tops their staves.

It is I am asserting,
'Tis no use controverting,
Many things disconcerting
Visit sheilings unthought.

I myself in oppression,
In subjection this season,
Lying in a French prison
'Neath every one's flout.

In locked chambers confined, and
No song, no pastime, and
No order from England
To send me home free.

That's unlike my old way there,
To be treading the heather,
The high-tops to weather
Taking a chance at the deer.

O'er the rocky peaks trailing,
With my gun never failing,
And my powder-flask haling,
On my knee in the heath.