The Book of Scottish Song/Gloamin'

Gloamin'.

[W. Gray.—Here first printed.—Tune, "Todlin' butt," &c.]

There's naething on yirth,
I ken to compare,
Wi' a walk in the gloamin',
To snuff the fresh air;
To frisk like a gawky,
When naebody sees,
An' jouk like a maukin
Amang the green trees.
O! the sweets o' the gloamin',
How delicious they are!
O! the young lover's dream
Is behint them by far.

When ye gang through the streets
O' our blethrin' wee town,
Your best ye maun try a
Lang face to ha'e on
In the gloamin' ye sen'
A' sic havers awa',
In the micht o' your freedom
Fu' crousely ye craw.
O! the sweets, &c.

And should you some lo'ed ane,
When wandering, meet,
The shake o' the han', O!
How cordial, how sweet!
Ye feel, then, true pleasure,
Unmixed wi' alloy,
Warld's things ye forget
In th' excess o' your joy.
O! the sweets, &c.

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