Braxfield Braes.
[From a collection of the last century.]
On Braxfield Braes, amang the broom,
How happie ha'e I been!
When June gard a' the meadows blume,
And clad the woods in green.
Owre Gallitudlum to the burn
How mirrie did I rove!
My steps by pleasant Clyde to turn,
Or sit in Willie's cove.
To catch the menon or the eel
Wi' artless hook I tried;
Then owr the beuchs and craigs to speel
Wi' eager haste I hied.
Syne ran the linties nest to see,
Or plaie at penny stane,
Ah, days of youth, how sweet are ye!
But ye ne'er cum again!
Fairest of her days.
Whoe'er beholds my Helen's face,
And says not that good hap has she;
Who hears her speak, and tents her grace,
Sall think nane ever spake but she.
The short way to resound her praise
She is the lairest of her days.
Who knows her wit, and not admires,
He maun be deem'd devoid of skill;
Her virtues kindle strong desires
In them that think upon her still.
The short way, &c.
Her red is like unto the rose
Whase buds are op'ning to the sun,
Her comely colours do disclose
The first degree of ripeness won.
The short way, &c.
And with the red is mixt the white,
Like to the sun and fair moonshine,
That does upon clear waters light,
And makes the colour seem divine.
The short way, &c.
The Mitherless Bairn.
[William Thom of Inverury.]
When a' ither bairnies are hush'd to their hame,
By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame,
Wha stands last an' lanely, an' sairly forfairn
'Tis the puir dowie laddie—the mitherless bairn!
The mitherless bairnie creeps to his lane bed,
Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head;
His wee hackit heelies are hard as the aim,
An' lithless the lair o' the mitherless bairn!
Aneath his cauld brow, siccan dreams hover there,
O' hands that wont kindly to kaim his dark hair!
But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern,
That lo'e na the locks o' the mitherless bairn!
The sister wha sang o'er his saftly rock'd bed,
Now rests in the mools whare their mammie is laid;
While the father toils sair his wee bannock to earn,
An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn.
Her spirit that pass'd in yon hour of his birth,
Still watches his lone lorn wand'rings on earth,
Recording in heaven the blessings they earn,
Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn!
Oh! speak him na harshly—he trembles the while,
He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile;—
In the dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn,
That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn!
Omnia vincit amor.
[From the Tea-Table Miscellany.]
As I went forth to view the spring,
Which Flora had adorned
In raiment fair; now every thing
The rage of winter scorned;
I cast mine eye, and did espy
A youth who made great clamour;
And drawing nigh I heard him cry,
Ah! Omnia vincit amor.
