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8
Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean,
This warld’s care is vain, Jean,
We’ll meet and aye be fain, Jean,
In the land o’ the leal.
LUBIN IS AWAY.
My mother bids me bind my hair
With bands of rosy hue,
Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare,
And lace my boddice blue.
For why, she cries, sit still and weep,
While others dance and play?
Alas! I scarce can go or creep,
While Lubin is away.
’Tis sad to think the days are gone,
When those we love are near;
I sit upon this mossy stone,
And sigh when none can hear.
And while I spin my flaxen thread,
Or sing my simple lay,
The village seems asleep or dead,
Since Lubin is away.
