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188 WILLIAM THOM, THE WEAVER POET.
They lack nae licht wha weel can speak
In love's ain wordless wile ; Her ee-bree creepin' on my cheek Betrays her pawkie smile. Happy, happy, silent so — Breathin' bonnie love, whisper low !
Was yon a waft o' her wee white han'
Wi' a warnin' " wheest " to me ? Or was it a gleam o' that f ause moon f a'in On my poor misguided ee ? Wearie, wearie, wearie O — Wauken, my lovie, an' whisper low !
The poor hand-loom weaver, struggling with the day's darg from the cold dawn to the cheerless night, and with but fitful gleams of light and happiness in the squalid misery of existence, and half unconsciously it may be, has interpreted the sadness and sweetness of love's despair and love's longing, with a melody and a rapture of utterance which touch the immortal sympathies of the heart through the magic of poetry, and will live in the emanations of his spirit to the eyes that for generations to come shall light upon these modest violets of song. Much greater and more fortunate men have failed to join the " choir invisible," and the poetry of loftier and stronger minds has perished, while these songs will remain in the immortal life of simple thought and deep feeling.