To thee, that ilk wish in my bosom can claim,
Wha aften I think on, but seldom I name,
I send these few lines, wi' a hearty good will—
Tho' in writin' love verses I sair doubt my skill:
Yet tho' the coy muse a drear silence should keep,
The wrongs that I bear, and affection, shall speak.
What stopt ye yestreen, that ye cam nae to see
Your lover sae lonely, that doats upon thee?
The winds were a' laid, an' the ev'nin' was clear;
How sweet was the silence!—but ye cam nae near!
That hour was a time that reflection might suit;
The leaves they lay still, and the birdies were mute;
The gowan was sippin' the saft siller dew;
The brown heather wav'd, wi' its bells red an' blue;
The moon shew'd the sheet o' the clear mountain stream,
That mov'd the lake's bosom to dance to her beam;
But I flew to the spot where the trystin' was set,
To the auld scrogged hawthorn, where aft we had met.
My hopes they were high, but my heart was soon sair—
A hare happet by me—but'ye were nae there!
I look'd an' I list'n'd, I humm'd o'er a sang;
The south it grew gloomy, the time it grew lang;
I saw the dim shade o' the cloud passin' by;
The stars seem'd disorder'd, an' shot in the sky;
Loud roar'd the blast drearie, an' bended the woods;
The moon she seem'd fear'd, an' vail'd her in clouds:
Tall trees, lately viein' in stature an' form,
Flung round their arms wildly, an' rav'd in the storm;
The winds an' the waves seem'd wi' nature at war—
But my mind was as restless, an' gloomier far.
The statesman may storm whan his schemes ha'e been cross'd—
The merchant may grieve whan his prospects are lost;
But neither can equal the keen throbbin' smart,
Of hope disappointed that wounds the fond heart:
'Tis mine all to feel, as in silence I moan,
Whilst thou, like a careless spectator, look'st on.
What tho' I be frien'less, an' poorer than you,
My life's nae less leal, an' my love nae less true;
Tho' frien's shou'd deny that you e'er shou'd be mine,
Might nae we whyles yet meet to tauk o' lang syne;
To tell the first spot where our fancy was mov'd;
How fair was your beauty, how dearly I lov'd!
With arms clasp'd aroun' you, my joys would o'erflow,
Whan hid frae this world an' a' its vain show.
How sweet the dark blasts frae your bosom to shroud!
Love lives in retirement, but dies in the crowd.
Tho' calm-bluided Prudence her sons may direct
To walk wi' decorum, each step circumspect;
They ne'er knew Love's passion, its beams, or its storms,
That ill can be guided by rules or by forms.
The daisy blooms sweet in its own native plain,
Tho' chill'd by the cauld blast, an' beat by the rain:
But see, in the garden how short is its day;
It withers in riches, its blossoms decay!
Perhaps ane mair wealthy your bosom has charm'd,
The glare o' whose gold your young fancy has warm'd,
An' I left alane here to languish in pain;
While every new day adds a link to the chain.
But where do I wan'er?—I meant but to tell
The simple auld story,—I love you still well;
An' whan that the sun is far fled to the west,
Whan lambs frae their gambols are gane to their rest,
Shall I hope then to see you, to bless these lone arms,
While the moon's silent beams shall add grace to your charms?
O haste then, my love, to the ance valued spot;
The present be ours, an' the past be forgot.
Wha aften I think on, but seldom I name,
I send these few lines, wi' a hearty good will—
Tho' in writin' love verses I sair doubt my skill:
Yet tho' the coy muse a drear silence should keep,
The wrongs that I bear, and affection, shall speak.
What stopt ye yestreen, that ye cam nae to see
Your lover sae lonely, that doats upon thee?
The winds were a' laid, an' the ev'nin' was clear;
How sweet was the silence!—but ye cam nae near!
That hour was a time that reflection might suit;
The leaves they lay still, and the birdies were mute;
The gowan was sippin' the saft siller dew;
The brown heather wav'd, wi' its bells red an' blue;
The moon shew'd the sheet o' the clear mountain stream,
That mov'd the lake's bosom to dance to her beam;
But I flew to the spot where the trystin' was set,
To the auld scrogged hawthorn, where aft we had met.
My hopes they were high, but my heart was soon sair—
A hare happet by me—but'ye were nae there!
I look'd an' I list'n'd, I humm'd o'er a sang;
The south it grew gloomy, the time it grew lang;
I saw the dim shade o' the cloud passin' by;
The stars seem'd disorder'd, an' shot in the sky;
Loud roar'd the blast drearie, an' bended the woods;
The moon she seem'd fear'd, an' vail'd her in clouds:
Tall trees, lately viein' in stature an' form,
Flung round their arms wildly, an' rav'd in the storm;
The winds an' the waves seem'd wi' nature at war—
But my mind was as restless, an' gloomier far.
The statesman may storm whan his schemes ha'e been cross'd—
The merchant may grieve whan his prospects are lost;
But neither can equal the keen throbbin' smart,
Of hope disappointed that wounds the fond heart:
'Tis mine all to feel, as in silence I moan,
Whilst thou, like a careless spectator, look'st on.
What tho' I be frien'less, an' poorer than you,
My life's nae less leal, an' my love nae less true;
Tho' frien's shou'd deny that you e'er shou'd be mine,
Might nae we whyles yet meet to tauk o' lang syne;
To tell the first spot where our fancy was mov'd;
How fair was your beauty, how dearly I lov'd!
With arms clasp'd aroun' you, my joys would o'erflow,
Whan hid frae this world an' a' its vain show.
How sweet the dark blasts frae your bosom to shroud!
Love lives in retirement, but dies in the crowd.
Tho' calm-bluided Prudence her sons may direct
To walk wi' decorum, each step circumspect;
They ne'er knew Love's passion, its beams, or its storms,
That ill can be guided by rules or by forms.
The daisy blooms sweet in its own native plain,
Tho' chill'd by the cauld blast, an' beat by the rain:
But see, in the garden how short is its day;
It withers in riches, its blossoms decay!
Perhaps ane mair wealthy your bosom has charm'd,
The glare o' whose gold your young fancy has warm'd,
An' I left alane here to languish in pain;
While every new day adds a link to the chain.
But where do I wan'er?—I meant but to tell
The simple auld story,—I love you still well;
An' whan that the sun is far fled to the west,
Whan lambs frae their gambols are gane to their rest,
Shall I hope then to see you, to bless these lone arms,
While the moon's silent beams shall add grace to your charms?
O haste then, my love, to the ance valued spot;
The present be ours, an' the past be forgot.