It came when I was sick at heart,
And sleepless was mine e'e,
When luve was fause, an' wily tongues
Turn'd frien' to enemie.
I thocht a saft han' lay in mine,
A sma' waist in my arm,
A wee heart beatin'—throbbin' fast
Wi' love an' life-bluid warm.
In quiet streams I've seen fair flowers
Hid 'neath the bank they grew,
Sae in her deep blue een I read
Flower-thochts o' various hue.
O, dinua look sae kind, Willie,
Or else wi' joy I'll dee,
An' dinna read my heart, Willie,
Wi' thae lang lucks o' your e'e.
A maiden's heart should be, Willie,
A sacred thing to men,
Its workin's in an hour o' joy
Man-body ne'er can ken.
The flower that in the shade wad live
Will wither in the sun,—
An' joy may work on maiden-heart
What grief wad ne'er ha'e done.
The marrin' o' a melody—
The stoppin' o' a stream—
A sudden lapse in sunny licht—
The burstin' o' a dream.
I woke—and on my glassy een
The paley moonbeam shone:
Speak on, I cried,—speak on, but, lo!
The weel kent voice was gone!
Fishing Song.
[W. A. Foster, formerly of Coldstream, now of Glasgow. Tune, "Ye mariners of England."—Here first printed.]
Ye fishermen of Scotland,
Who love the stream and pool,
Whose haunts are by the river side,
Among the shadows cool:
Your tackle mount, my gallant hearts,
With minnow, fly, or roe,
It is best from the west,
While the gentle breezes blow.
Old Scotland holds the cataract
Among her mountains steep,
With streaming rills, and sleepy pools,
Where trout and salmon leap.
Then mount the line, my gallant hearts,
The hills are clear of snow;
Fling bait in the spate,
While the gentle breezes blow.
The spirit of old anglers gone
Will rise with every cast,
And cheer us 'neath the summer sun
Or winter's angry blast.
Where old John Foster fish'd so well,
To Birgham Dub, we'll go,
And try with the fly,
While the gentle breezes blow.
The fame of Carham's angling stream
Will only higher rise,
While Scott can wield a salmon rod,
Or Carse can dress such flies.
Tweed's been their glory, they her pride,
Then let her waters flow
To the fame of their name,
While the gentle breezes blow.
Hame.
[John Mitchell of Paisley.—Here first printed.]
My hame! I wadna lea' my hame,
Rough though the biggin be,
To live amid a blaze o' fame,
For what is fame to me!
In life's gay morn, wi' lightsome tread,
I roved the groves amang,
Where, still at e'en, I lay my head
To list ilk wee bird's sang.
And I have seen in lordly ha'
The fair and gay convene,
Where wreathed smiles chased care awa',
