Classic Poem

W E'VE muckle to vex us, puir sons o' a day,
As we journey along on life's wearisome way;
But what are the troubles with which we're opprest,
If Love makes our bosoms the hame o' her rest?

When Love lichts the hearthstane, there's joy in the ha',
And a sunshiny streak on ilk bosom doth fa';
The ingle blinks blither, affections increase,
And the cottage she turns to a palace o' peace.

Where'er she approaches, a' hearts grow sincere;
She hallows a' places, mak's ev'ry spot dear;
For wrang canna breathe in the sphere o' her grace,
And Hate flees awa' frae the licht o' her face.

Where'er she approaches, where'er she appears,
She cames aye to comfort, and wipe awa' tears,
To help on the weary and lichten their load,
And cheer them wi' sangs on their wearisome road.

And oh! her sweet smile mak's the fallen look up;
It's the ae blessed drap in their sorrowfu' cup!
Then oh, may this heart o' mine never grow sear!
Oh, let me, 'bune a' things, hold somebody dear!

Oh! leave me but Love — tho' my roof-tree should fa',
And the gear we hae gather'd tak' wings an' awa' —
For riches and grandeur, the things we haud dear,
Are a' but vain glories that die wi' us here;
But Love burns the brichter wi' our parting breath,
And lichts us at last thro' the valley o' Death.