The Book of Scottish Song/The primrose blooms

The primrose blooms.

[George Taylor.]

The primrose blooms by burn and brae,
The cowslip on the lea;
The birds are singing sangs of love,
And a' is glad but me.
I heed not summer's joyfu' sounds,
For me its beauty's vain;
There's dool upon my burden'd heart,
The weight o' cureless pain.

How can I bear to hear the birds
Send music from the tree?
It minds me o' my Mary's voice,
That speaks nae mair to me!
How can I sit beside the flowers,
And see them smile sae fair?
They mind me o' my Mary's face
That smiles on me nae mair.

The summer soon will pass awa',
The flowers will drop and dee;
And nature's dowie look will then
Be mair in tune wi' me.
The sangsters' glee will a' be hush'd,
Like me they'll sadness ken;
And, wandering through the wintry woods,
I'll mak' them neebours then.

Oh! could I hope for Mary's love,
As nature hopes for spring,
Nae winter's gloom could o'er my heart,
Its darksome shadow fling.
But ah! her love, and sunny smiles,
Mine ne'er again can be—
To ithers gladsome seasons come,
It's winter aye wi' me!

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