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The ray which tips with gold the stream,
Gilds not the depths below;
All bright alike the eye may deem,
But yet—it is not so.
Why to the cold and careless throng
My ceaseless grief reveal?
Why speak of what I was, to those
Who do not, cannot feel?
No! joy may light the brow—unknown,
Unseen my tear-drops flow,
'Tis my poor, sorrowing heart alone.
Responds—it is not so.
UP IN THE MORNING EARLY.
Up in the morning's no for me,
Up in the morning early
When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw,
I'm sure it's winter fairly.
Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,
The drift is driving sairly;
