An' blythe now an' cheerfu', frae mornin' to e'enin'
She sits thro' the simmer, an' gladdens ilk ear,
Baith auld and young daut her, sae gentle and winnin',
To a' the folks round, the wee lassie is dear.
Braw leddies caress her, wi' bounties would press her,
The modest bit darlin' their notice would shun,
For though she has naething, proud hearted this wee thing,
The bonnie blind lassie that sits i' the sun.
The Thorn Tree.
[From Tait's Magazine for Sept. 1838.]
I watch'd the moon blink owre the hill,
And, oh, she glentit bonnily!
Then met my lass, when a' was still,
Below the spreading thorn tree.
Oh! for the thorn tree—the fair, the spreading thorn tree!—
The flame o' love lowes bonnily aneath a spreading thorn tree!
The glow o' youth beam'd on her cheek,
And love was lowin' in her e'e,
And Cupids play'd at hide-and-seek
Around us at the thorn tree.
Oh! for the thorn tree—the fair, the spreading thorn tree!—
The flame o' love lowes bonnily aneath a spreading thorn tree!
The wanton breeze, wi' downy wing,
Cam' soofin' owre us cannily;
And saft and sweet the burn did sing,
When trottin' by the thorn tree.
Oh! for the thorn tree—the fragrant-scented thorn tree!—
I ken o' naught sic joys can gi'e as love aneath the thorn tree!
I clasp'd my lassie to my heart,
And vow'd my love should lasting be;
And wussed ilk ill to be my part,
When I forgot the thorn tree.
Oh! for the thorn tree—the fresh, the scented thorn tree!—
I'll ever mind, wi' blythsome glee, my lassie and the thorn tree!
We met beneath the rising moon—
She beddit maist as soon as we,
She hung the westlan' heights aboon
When we cam' frae the thorn tree.
Oh! for the thorn tree—the fresh, the milk-white thorn tree!—
'Twas past the midnight hour a wee, when we cam' frae the thorn tree!
I've seen the glass careerin' past—
I liked it too—I'll never lee;
But, oh! its joys can ne'er be class'd
Wi' love aneath the thorn tree!
Oh! for the thorn tree—the fresh, the milk-white thorn tree!—
Of a' the joys there's nane to me like love aneath the thorn tree!
Soldier, rest.
[From "The Lady of the lake," by Sir W. Scott.]
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;
Dream of battled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle's enchanted hall,
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing!
Fairy strains of music fall,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er.
Dream of fighting fields no more;
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
No rude sound shall reach thine ear;
Armour's clang, or war-steed champing;
Trump nor pibroch summon here,
Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Tet the lark's shrill fife may come,
At the day-break, from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here;
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,
Shouting clans, or squadrons tramping.
