5
As blythe and as artless as lambs on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my ee,
But oh, she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird,
My daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;
A wooer like me manna hope to come speed,
The wounds I maun hide that will soon be my dead.
The day comes to me, but delight I have nane,
The night comes to me, but ray rest it is gane,
I wander my lane like a night troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart is wad burst in my breast.
O had she but been of lower degree,
I then might bae hope she wad smile upon me!
O how past describing wad then be my bless,
As now my distraction no words can express.
THE HARP THAT ONCE.
The Harp that once through Tara’s halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute as Para's walls
As if that soul was fled:—
So sleep's the pride of former days,
So glory's thrill is o'er;
And hearts that once beat high for praise,
Now feel that pulse no more.
