The Book of Scottish Song/I wander'd alane

I wander'd alane.

[Alex. Buchanan.—Air, "Lucy's Flittin."—Here first printed.]

I wander'd alane at the break o' the mornin'—
The dun clouds o' nicht were a' wearin' awa',—
The sun rose in glory, the grey hills adornin',
A' glintin' like gowd were their tappits o' snaw;
Adown by my side row'd the rock-bedded Kelvin,
While nature aroun' was beginnin' to green,
An' auld cottar bodies their yardies were delvin',
Kenin' thrift in the morn brocht pleasure at e'en.

I leant me against an auld mossy clad palin',
An' noo an' then dichted a tear frae my e'e—
I look'd on the bodies, an' envied their toilin'—
Though lowly their lot, they seem'd happy by me.
I thocht on my riches, yet feckless the treasure,
I tried to forget, but the labour was vain;
My wifie an' bairn were a' my life's pleasure,
An' they to the grave baith thegither had gane.

The thochts o' her love had awaken'd my sorrow,
The laugh o' my bairnie cam' back on mine ears,
An' piercin' my heart wi' the force o' an arrow,
It opened anew the saft channel o' tears.
I grat an' I sabb'd, till I thocht life wad lea' me,
An' happy I then could ha'e parted wi' life—
For naething on earth sic enjoyment could gi'e me,
As the glee o' my bairn, an' smile o' my wife.

O weary the day was, when they were ta'en frae me—
Leavin' me lane, the last leaf on the tree;
Nae comfort the cauld look o' strangers can gi'e me,
I'm wae—an' they a' look as waefu' on me.
I wander me aften, to break melancholy,
On ilk thing that's lievin', the maxim I see,
Not walth to the weary 's like peace to the lowly,
Sae burden'd wi' grief, I maun gang till I dee.

---