If I wasna ettled to be ony better, Then what gars me wish ony better to be? Nae wonder the tears fa' sae fast frae my e'e. "Wi' the rest o' my claes I ha'e row'd up the ribbon, Though now he said naething but 'Fare ye weel, Lucy!' The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when it's droukit; The hare likes the brake and the braird on the lea: But Lucy likes Jamie, she turn'd and she lookit, She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see. Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless! And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn! For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless, Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return! ODE TO LEVEY-WATER. SMOLLETT. ON Leven's banks, while free to rove, And tune the rural pipe to love, I envied not the happiest swain Pure stream, in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave; No rocks impede thy dimpling course, That sweetly warbles o'er its bed, With white, round, polished pebbles spread; And edges flowered with eglantine. Still on thy banks so gaily green, May numerous herds and flocks be seen, And shepherds piping in the dale; THE FA' O' IHE YEAR. THOMAS SMIBERT. AFORE the Lammas' tide had dun'd the birken-tree, In a' our water-side nae wife was blest like me; Sair trouble cam' our gate, an' made me, when it cam', e A bird without a mate, a ewe without a lamb. Our hay was yet to maw, and our corn was to shear, I downa look a-field, for aye I trow I see The form that was a bield to my wee bairns and me; But wind, and weet, and snaw, they never mair can fear, Sin' they a' got the ca' in the fa' o' the year. Aft on the hill at e'ens I see him amang the ferns, Our bonny rigs theirsel' reca' my waes to mind, Our puir dumb beasties tell o' a' that I hae tyned; For wha our wheat will saw, and wha our sheep will shear, Sin' my a' gaed awa' in the fa' o' the year?. My hearth is growing cauld, and will be caulder still; And sair, sair in the fauld will be the winter's chill; For peats were yet to ca'-our sheep were yet to smear, When my a' dwined awa' in the fa' o' the year. I ettle whiles to spin, but wee, wee patterin' feet Be kind, O Heav'n abune! to ane sae wae and lane, And tak' her hamewards sune, in pity o' her mane; Lang ere the March winds blaw, may she, far far frae here. Meet them a' that's awa' sin' the fa' o' the year. IO A CHILD. JOANNA BAILLIE. WHOSE imp art thou, with dimpled cheek, And curly pate and merry eye, And arm and shoulders round and sleek, What boots it who, with sweet caresses, For thou in every wight that passes, Thy downcast glances, grave but cunning, But far afield thou hast not flown, With mocks and threats, half-lisped, half-spoken, I feel thee pulling at my gown; Of right good-will, thy simple token. |