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WILLIAM THOM, THE WEAVER POET. 187 |
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Or would she crush my lowly love
Beneath a brow o' pride ? I daurna claim and maurna blame
Her heart on Ythanside.
I '11 rue yon high and heathy seat
That hangs o'er Ythanside ; I '11 rue the mill where burnies meet;
I '11 rue ye, Ythanside. And you, ye moon, wi' luckless licht,
Pour'd a' your gowden tide O'er sic a brow ! sic e'en yon nicht!
Oh, weary Ythanside.
This is the other one in a somewhat different vein, but with equal magic in its melody and tender sweetness of expression: —
WHISPER LOW.
Slowly, slowly the cauld moon creeps
Wi' a licht unloesome to see ; It dwalls on the window whaur my love sleeps, An 'she winna wauken to me.
Wearie, wearie, the hours, and slow, Wauken, my lovie, and whisper low.
There's nae ae sang in heaven's licht,
Nor on the green earth doun, Like soun's which kind love kens at nicht, When whispers hap the soun'; Hearin', fearin', sichin' so — Whisper, my bonnie love, whisper low ! |
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