Carle Time.
[William Fergusson.—Here first printed.]
O! carle Time, auld carle Time,
My blessin' I'd gi'e thee,
Gin ye would turn your face, and bring
Back by-gane days to me:—
Bring back the lang, lang sunny days,
When youth an' hope were mine,
Wi' a' the friends I lo'ed an' lost,
In days o' lang syne.
O! kindly carle, dinna gloom,
But leave your onward track,
For through the mist o' forty years
I fondly wad gang back:—
I'll leave behind my lade o' care,
And, light o' heart and limb,
I'll follow you through early scenes,
By distance now made dim.
O! lead me to the dear loved spot,
Where childhood's hours were spent,
Where misery was but a name,
And toil was scarcely kent;
Where pleasures hung in clusters round,
Like blossoms on the tree;
And a' the world I saw, appear'd
A paradise to me!
And, gentle carle, let me sit
An hour by that auld chair,
That bore my mother lang, and see
My kindly mother there—
O, Time! I'd gi'e you a' I'm worth,
Or ever like to be,
For ae look o' that blessed face,
Sair worn wi' grief for me!
And, carle, there's a birken bower,
O' early love the scene—
Cleed, cleed again its wither'd boughs,
Wi' leaves o' glossy green:—
And, O! bring back to meet me there,
Frae out the darksome tomb,
My early-lost, my bonnie bride,
In a' her maiden bloom.
O! cruel carle, I plead in vain—
Ye leave me to my fate;
Wi' moody brow, and eident step,
Ye keep your onward gate:
But carle Time, auld carle Time,
My blessin' I'd gi'e thee,
Gin ye would turn your face, and bring
Back by-gane days to me.
The autumn leaves.
[Alex. Maclaggan.—Here first printed.]
The autumn leaves fa' fast, dear May,
O! weary fully fast,
Poor blighted things, they canna thole
The buffets o' ilk blast.
The birds will soon be mute, dear May,
The sweet flowers dead an' gane,
And soon ilk strippet tree will stand
As bare's yon auld mile stane
The black bat flitts—the howlet hoots
Frae Roslin's castle wa',
The wicked spirit o' the winds
Raves through ilk hoary ha'.
Rude ruin on the rafters bare
Has fix'd his gorin teeth,
And the pick-axe o' the labourin' wight
Is working hard beneath.
The roarin' lin', the waves, the win',
Sing sadly i' the ear,
That winter, wi' his hoasts an' frosts,
And caulds and cramps, is near.
And when the wreckin' tempest sweeps
Athwart the leafless lea,
And shakes ilk biggin' to the found,
O' wha will shelter thee?
Nae brither brave, nae sister sweet,
Greets thee with kindred smile;
Thy honour'd father's auld grey hairs
Lie 'neath our abbey-isle.
Your mither on her cauld death-bed
Aft fondly turn'd to thee,
Syne grasp'd my hand, and, weepin', left
Her wee pet lamb to me.
Why weeps my early love? why heaves
With sighs thy gentle breast?
Beshrew these silly words o' mine,
