Classic Poem

That strain o' music greets my ear,
Like joys o' days departed,
When ilka mornin' dawn'd sae fair,
An' fand me lightsome-hearted:
It tells o' loves that ance I knew,
O' een that shone sae clearly,
An' ah! it minds me o' the voice
O' her I loe'd sae dearly.

It minds me o' the welcome, when
I met her aft at gloamin;
It minds me o' the sweet fareweel,
When we had lang been roamin'.
It is her sang, — I ken it true;
Nae ither voice could breathe it;
Nane wi' sic artless melody,
Sae woodland wild, enwreath it.

Flow gently on, thou sweetest strain;
My heart is fain to hear thee;
My loves I 'll never know again;
They dwell in heav'n a' near thee.
An' yet the hopes o' ither days
Dawn, as thou breathest round me;
My spirit bursts to light an' life,
Frae sorrow's chain that bound me.

Thou stealest to my inmost soul,
An' charm'st awa my sadness;
The clouds, that heavy round me roll,
Now break, an' a' is gladness.
O fly na' yet! wi' lang delay,
Still fondly linger near me;
Blest voice o' joy an' comfort, stay!
I 'll never tire to hear thee.