The sacred hours like moments flew,
Soft transports thrill'd my bosom through
The warl' evanish'd frae my view
Within the arms of Mary;
My ain dear Mary,
Nae gloomy cares my soul e'er knew
Within the arms of Mary.
Young fancy spread her visions gay,
Love fondly view'd the fair display,
Hope show'd the blessfu' nuptial day
And I was rapt with Mary;
My ain dear Mary,
The flowers of Eden strew'd the way
That led me to my Mary.
But life is now a dreary waste,
I, lanely, wander sair depress'd,
For cold and lifeless is that breast
Where throbb'd the heart of Mary;
My ain dear Mary,
She's gane to seats of blissfa' rest,
And I ha'e lost my Mary.
The setting Sun.
[Written for a Country Rocking by James Stirrat.—Here first printed.]
The setting sun in gowden light,
The cloudless moon wi' sil'er ray,
The star o' e'ening beaming bright
Fu' bonnie, blythsome charms display.
But bonnier blinks frae maiden eyes,
This happy place and time endear,
Outshine the lights that deck the skies,
And make a starry heaven here.
Let titled rank in grandeur's glare
To waltzes sweep the painted ha',
Simplicity's a stranger there,
And happiness beyond their ca'.
But here in hamely pleasure's ring,
Wi' smiles frae artless beauty crown'd,
We taste a bliss that ne'er can spring
Frae fashion's vain illusive round.
The song, the dance, ilk bosom cheers,
And a' in harmless daffin' join;
Even age throws aff his load of years,
And shakes his foot to "auld langsyne."
O lang may canty glee abound,
And happy love our pastime bless,
And lang may ilka year bring round
A rocking glorious as this.
Oh, I lo'ed.
[From "Poetical Remains of the late Robert Fraser, Editor of the Fife Herald," Cupar, 1839. Mr. Fraser died in 1839; he was a native of Pathhead in Fifeshire.]
Oh, I lo'ed my lassie weel,
How weel I canna tell—
Lang, lang ere ithers trow'd,
Lang ere I wist mysel'.
At the school amang the lave,
If I wrestled or I ran,
I cared nae for the prize
If she saw me when I wan.
Oh, I lo'ed my lassie weel,
When the gleesome days were gane,
'Mang a' the bonnie an' the gude
To match her saw I nane;
Though the cauld warl' o'er me cam'
Wi' its cumber an' its toil,
My day-tide dool was a' forgot
In her blythe e'enin' smile.
Oh, I lo'ed, nor lo'ed in vain,
An' though mony cam' to woo,
Wha to won her wad been fain,
Yet to me she aye was true;
She grat wi' very joy
When our waddin' day was set,
An' though twal' gude years sinsyne ha'e fled,
She's my darling lassie yet.
The Husband's Song.
[William Wilson.]
Wha my kettle now will boil,
Wha will cheer me wi' her smi!
Wha will lichten a' my toil,
When thou art far awa'?
