Classic Poem

L IFE'S a' a haze, a dreary maze,
Oh, would that it were dune!
Oh, weary me! would I could dee!
What keeps the leddy mune?
I lang for nicht, for this daylicht
Rives a' my hert and brain,
But whan it's dune, oh, then I'm in
A dear worl' o' my ain.

Day was a joy till that blin' boy
Oor cottage enter'd in;
Then peace and rest flew frae my breast;
He left a grief behin'.
When bleerie moles creep frae their holes,
The bat is on the wing,
An' owls too-hoo the croodlin' doo,
An' nae wee bird daur sing;

The taid creeps oot the auld tree root,
An' mounts his ain door-stane,
Like wee auld man o' some lost clan
Left in the world alane;
When puddock-stools by sleepin' mools
Loup up in clear muneshine,
'Neath sill'ry wabs, wi' dewy blabs,
An' fairies come to dine,

I mount my mare, and thro' the air
I gallop to the sea,
Whaur mermaids fair, wi' dreepin' hair,
A' gather roun' wi' me.
Then a' the nicht, wi' herts sae licht,
We skim the munelicht sea
(Ye never saw sic leddies braw,
Or sic blithe company);

Or sit us doun an' that sang croon
Nae mortal e'er can learn,
We rock asleep the waukrife deep,
As mither rocks her bairn.
Then to the caves aneath the waves,
At vera streak o' dawn,
Thro' regions fair, 'mang pearls sae rare,
We wan'er han'-in-han'.

Then, too, we hear, 'tween joy an' fear,
The great sea-organ's swell—
Sic heaving moans, sic tempest-tones,
Earth's language canna tell;
An' while they ring the great wind's wing
Is faulded on its breast,
While, sabbin' sair on oor breasts there,
They lay them down to rest.

To hear the sang the sea-dogs thrang,
An' water-sprites draw near,
While mighty waves are still as slaves
An' hush their herts to hear.
Oh, weary me! what ills I dree!
Will daylicht ne'er be dune?
There's something wrang, the day's owre lang!
What keeps the leddy mune?

There was a psaulm aye drapt like baulm—
Ma faither sang 't to me—
Ma heart-strings crack when it comes back,
Awa' it winna glee.
I canna beir that psaulm to hear!
It wafts me to the days
Whan peace cam' doun in great white goun
T' oor cottage 'mang the braes.

The still loch lay in Sabbath ray,
The hills sae solemn stood,
The waterfa', wi' souch o' awe,
Gart phantoms roun' me croud;
The Sabbath bells, wi' saintly swells,
Far up amang the braes—
Hoo frae ma hert they gart ootstert
Some holy hymn o' praise.

At times we lea' the midnicht sea,
An' a' the dancing waves,
An' thro' the mirk mak' for the kirk
Amang the grassy graves.
The deid in crouds cam' in their shrouds,
An' oh, they leukit braw!
An' spak' o' death aneath their breath
Until the grey cock craw.

'Mang the unblest wha canna rest
I'm sure last nicht I saw
The wee blin' bairn, oh, hoo forfairn!
But noo I maun awa';
For see! the mune comes peekin' in,
An' sae I canna bide;—
Hark to the sea! it cries on me,
Sae I maun up an' ride!