A wanton widow Leezie was,
As canty as a kittlen;
But och! that night, amang the shaws,
She got a fearfu' settlin!
She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn,
An' owre the hill gaed scrievin,
Where three lairds' lands met at a burn,
To dip her left sark-sleeve in,
Was bent that night.
Whyles o'er a linn the burnie plays,
As thro' the glen it wimpl't;
Whyles round a rocky scar it strays;
Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't;
Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays,
Wi' bickering, dancin dazzle;
Whyles cocket underneath the braes,
Below the spreading hazel,
Unseen that night.
Amang the brackens, on the brae,
Between her an' the moon,
The Deil, or else an outler quey,
Gat up an' gae a croon !
Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool;
Near lav'rock-height she jumpet,
But mist a fit, an' in the pool,
Out owre the lugs she plumpet,
Wi' a plunge that night,
In order, on the clean hearth-stane,
The luggies three are ranged,
An' ev'ry time great care is taen,
To see them duly changed;
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys,
Sin' Mar's year did desire,
Because he gat the toom dish thrice,
He heav'd them on the fire,
In wrath that night.
Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks,
I wat they did na weary;
An' unco tales, an funnie jokes,
Their sports were cheap an' cheery,
Till butter'd so'ns, wi' fragrant lunt,
Set a' their gabs a-steerin;
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt,
They parted aff careerin,
Fu' blythe that night.
WHEN I am old — (and O, how soon
Will life's sweet morning yield to noon,
And noon's broad, fervid, earnest light
Be shaded in the solemn night!
Till like a story well-nigh told
Will seem my life, when I am old.) –
When I am old, this breezy earth
Will lose for me its voice of mirth;
The streams will have an undertone
Of sadness not by right their own;
And spring's sweet power in vain unfold
In rosy charms - when I am old.
When I am old, I shall not care
To deck with flowers my faded hair;
'Twill be no vain desire of mine
In rich and costly dress to shine;
Bright jewels and the brightest gold
Will charm me naught — when I am old.
When I am old, my friends will be
Old and infirm and bowed, like me;
Or else,
(their bodies 'neath the sod,
Their spirits dwelling safe with God), -
The old church-bell will long have tolled
Above the rest when I am old.
When I am old, I'd rather bend
Thus sadly o'er each buried friend,
Than see them lose the earnest truth
That marks the friendship of our youth;
'Twill be so sad to have them cold,
When I am old — perhaps ere then
I shall be missed from haunts of men;
Perhaps my dwelling will be found
Beneath the green and quiet mound;
My name by stranger hands enrolled
ore I am old.
Ere I am old?-tuac tune is now,
For youth sits lightly on my brow;
My limbs are firm, and strong, and frec;
Life hath a thousand charms for me;
Charms that will long their influence hold
Within my heart ere I am old.
Ere I am old, O, let me give
My life to learning how to live!
Then shall I meet with willing heart
An early summons to depart,
Or find my lengthened days consoled
By God's sweet peace — when I am old.
RING, joyous chords!· ring out again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain!
They are here — the fair face and the careless heart,
And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part.
But I met a dimly mournful glance,
In a sudden turn of the flying dance;
I heard the tone of a heavy sigh
In a pause of the thrilling melody!
And it is not well that woe should breathe
On the bright spring-flowers of the festal wreath!
Ye that to thought or to grief belong,
Leave, leave the hall of song!
Ring, joyous chords! - but who art thou,
With the shadowy locks o'er thy pale, young brow,
And the world of dreamy gloom that lies
In the misty depths of thy soft, dark eyes?
Thou hast loved, fair girl, thou hast loved too well;
Thou art mourning now o'er a broken spell;
Thou hast poured thy heart's rich treasures forth,
And art unrepaid for their priceless worth;
Mourn on! — yet come thou not here the while;
It is but a pain to see thee smile;
There is not a tone in our songs for thee
Home with thy sorrows flee!
Ring, joyous chords! ring out again!
But what dost thou with the revel's train?
A silvery voice through the soft air floats,
But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes;
There are bright young faces that pass thee by,
But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye!
Away! there's a void in thy yearning breast,
Thou weary man; wilt thou here find rest?
Away! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled,
And the love of thy spirit is with the dead!
Thou art but more lone midst the sounds of mirth,
Back to thy silent hearth!
Ring, joyous chords! ring forth again;
A swifter still, and a wilder strain!
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