English

Here awa', there awa' wandering, Willie,
Here awa', there awa', haud awa' hame;
Come to my bosom, my ae only deary,
Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same.

Loud tho' the winter blew cauld on our parting,
'Twas na the blast brought the tear in my e'e:
Welcome now Simmer, and welcome my Willie;
The Simmer to Nature, my Willie to me.

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave o' your slumbers,
How your dread howling a lover alarms!
Wauken, ye breezes! row gently, ye billows!
And waft my dear Laddie ance mair to my arms.

Madam

Nae Heathen Name shall I prefix,
Frae Pindus or Parnassus;
Auld Reekie dings them a' to sticks
For rhyme-inspiring Lasses.—

Jove's tunefu' Dochters three times three
Made Homer deep their debtor;
But gien the body half an e'e,
Nine Ferriers wad done better.—

Last day my mind was in a bog,
Down George's street I stoited;
A creeping, cauld Prosaic fog
My vera senses doited.—

Do what I dought to set her free,
My Muse lay in the mire;
Ye turn'd a neuk—I saw your e'e—

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
He 's the king o' gude fellows, and wale of auld men;
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,
And ae bonie lassie, his dawtie and mine.

She 's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
She 's sweet as the e'enin amang the new hay;
As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.

But oh, she 's an Heiress, auld Robin 's a laird;
And my daddie has nocht but a cot-house and yard:
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed;

‘O Whar did ye get that hauver-meal bannock?’
O silly blind body, O dinna ye see;
I gat it frae a young brisk Sodger Laddie,
Between Saint Johnston and bonie Dundee.
O gin I saw the laddie that gae me 't!
Aft has he doudl'd me upon his knee;
May Heaven protect my bonie Scots laddie,
And send him safe hame to his babie and me.

My blessins upon thy sweet, wee lippie!
My blessins upon thy bonie e'e brie!
Thy smiles are sae like my blyth Sodger laddie,
Thou 's ay the dearer, and dearer to me!

When the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath the spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
Every burning word he spoke
Full of rage and full of grief:

"Princess! if our agèd eyes
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,
'Tis because resentment ties
All the terrors of our tongues.

"Rome shall perish--write that word
In the blood that she has spilt--
Perish, hopeless and abhorred,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.

Day's sweetest moments are at dawn;
Refreshed by his long sleep, the Light
Kisses the languid lips of Night,
Ere she can rise and hasten on.
All glowing from his dreamless rest
He holds her closely to his breast,
Warm lip to lip and limb to limb,
Until she dies for love of him.

Thou are not yet at home; perhaps thy feet
Are on the threshold of thy father's door,
But still thy journey is not there complete,
If thou canst add to it but one step more;
'Tis not thy house which thou with feet can reach,
'Tis where when wearied they will enter not;
But stop beneath an earthly roof, where each
May for a time find comfort in his lot;
Then called to wander soon again must mourn,
That such frail shelter they should call relief;
And onward seek again that distant bourne,
The home of all the family of grief,

Addressing reason, yet above it still,
The True Religion speaks unto the soul;
It bids the conflicts of the mind be still,
And doth each motive of the will controul.
From low to higher still is nature's law,
Written on stony tablets of the earth;
And things we see upward the spirit draw
To things, and beings of a nobler birth.
Nor man alone aspires; but God descends,
And to our faculties doth lend his aid;
That we, amidst our doubts, may see the ends,
For which the world, and all therein were made;

What of the night? O watchman! tell,
Who on the watchtower high doth stand;
What of the night? I hear it swell
In every tongue, from every land.

Lo! half the earth in darkness lies,
Millions to idols bend the knee;
When shall the day-spring bless their eyes,
And the deep gloom before it flee?

Nations that boast the Christian name,
Still meet as foes in bloody fight;
When shall they own their deeds with shame,
And in the ways of Peace delight?

When shall they use the talents lent,

Oh, bid the desert blossom as the rose,
For there is not one flower that meets me now;
On all thy fields lie heaped the wintry snows,
And the rough ice encrusts the fruitful bough;
Oh, breathe upon thy ruined vineyard still,
Though like the dead it long unmoved has lain;
Thy breath can with the bloom of Eden fill,
The lifeless clods in verdure clothe again;
Awake, ye slothful! open wide the earth
To the new sun and spirit's quickening rain;
They come to bid the furrows heave in birth,
And strew with roses thick the barren plain;