23
And ay she wrought her Wither's wark.
And ay she sang sae inorrilic;
The blithest bird upon the bush,
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she.
But hawks will rob the tender joys
That bless the little lintwhite's nest:
And frost will blight the fairest flowers,
And love will break the soundest rest.
Young Robie was the brawest lad,
The flower and pride of a' the glen:
And he had owsen, sheep, and kye,
And wanton nagies nine or ten.
He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryst,
He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down:
And lang ere witless Jeanie wist,
Her heart was tint, her peace was stown.
As in the bosom o' the stream
The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en;
So trembling pure, was tender love
Within the breast o' bonny Jean.
And now she works her mither's wark,
And ay she sighs wi' care and pain;
Yet wist na what her ail might be,
Or what wad mak her weel again.
