The Book of Scottish Song/Phœbe Graeme

Phœbe Graeme.

[Alex. Maclaggan.]

Arise, my faithfu' Phœbe Graeme!
I grieve to see ye sit
Sae laigh upon your creepy stool,
In sic a dorty fit!
A reamin' cog's a wilin' rogue;
But, by my vows sincere,
Ilk smilin' cup, by mirth flll'd up,
Was drained wi' friends lang dear.

Ye needua turn your tearfu' e'e
Sae aften on the clock;
I ken the short han' frae the lang
As weel as wiser folk.
Let hoary time, wi' bleth'rin' chime,
Taunt on—nae wit has he!
Nae spell-spun hour—nae wilin' power,
Can win my heart frae thee.

Oh, weel ye ken, dear Phœbe Graeme!
Sin' we, 'maist bairns, wed,
That, torn by poortith's iron teeth,
My heart has aft times bled:—
Fortune, the jaud, for a' she had,
Doled me but feckless blanks;
But bless'd wi' thee, and love, and glee,
I scorn her partial pranks.

As drumlie clouds o'er summer skies
Let anger's shadows flit!
There's days o' peace, and nights o' joy,
To pass between us yet!
For I do swear to thee, my fair,
Till life's last pulse be o'er,
Till light depart, my faithfu' heart
Shall love thee more and more!

Fair be thy fa'! my Phœbe Graeme!
Enraptured now I see
The smile upon thy bonnie face,
Whilk wont to welcome me.
Grant me the bliss o' ae fond kiss,
Ae kind forgi'ein' blink
O' thy true love, and I will prove
Far wiser than ye think!

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