Wha will meet me on the stair,
Wha will kiss me kindly there,
And lull to rest ilk earthly care,
When thou art far awa'?
When the day is at a close,
Wlia will mak' my wee drap brose,
Snodly mend my holley hose,
When thou art far awa'?
Wha will wi' my failings bear,
Wha my e'enin' psalm will share,
Wha will kneel wi' me in prayer,
When thou art far awa'?
When the nights grow lang and cauld,
And the wind blaws snell and bauld,
Wha her arms around me fauld,
When thou art far awa'?
Wha will trigly mak' my bed,
Draw my nichtcap o'er my head,
And kiss me when I down am laid,
When thou art far awa'?
Nane!—and dowie now I gang
Through the house the hale nicht lang,
Croonin' ower some simple sang
O' her that's far awa'
Now I downa bide to leuk
Ayont the cheerless ingle neuk,
Where aft I read the haly beuk
To her that's far awa'.
Haste, my dearest! haste ye hame,
Come my ain beloved dame!
Ferry ower loch, sea, and stream,
And ne'er gae mair awa'!
The Window Pane.
[From "Pontia: a Tale, and other Poems, by George Taylor," Edinburgh, 1837. Mr. Taylor, is parochial teacher in Anstruther Wester, Fifeshire.]
Let me in, let me in, my bonnie sweetheart,
Or come ye out to me;
It's lang since I saw your winsome face,
Or the smirk o' yere coal-black e'e.
The bonnie clear moon is in the sky,
There fa's nae cauld night dew—
Come out, come out, my bonnie sweetheart,
Or let me in to you.
"I will neither come out nor let you in;
Gae wa' frae the window pane,
Gae back to her ye were wi' yestreen,
And be content wi' ane."
Fause, fause was the tongue that tauld ye sae;
I lo'e nane but ye'rsel':
Rise up, rise up, my bonnie sweetheart—
I've a breastfu' of love to tell!
And how could she doubt the lad she loved?
Her heart relented soon—
He clasp'd in his arms his bonnie sweetheart,
'Neath the light of the siller moon.
His lips were press'd to her blushing cheek,
Her doubts and fears were gane;
She wondered why she had let him stand
Sae lang at the window-pane.
The primrose blooms.
[George Taylor.]
The primrose blooms by burn and brae,
The cowslip on the lea;
The birds are singing sangs of love,
And a' is glad but me.
I heed not summer's joyfu' sounds,
For me its beauty's vain;
There's dool upon my burden'd heart,
The weight o' cureless pain.
How can I bear to hear the birds
Send music from the tree?
It minds me o' my Mary's voice,
That speaks nae mair to me!
How can I sit beside the flowers,
And see them smile sae fair?
They mind me o' my Mary's face
That smiles on me nae mair.
The summer soon will pass awa',
The flowers will drop and dee;
And nature's dowie look will then
Be mair in tune wi' me.
