The Black-Bird Songster/Logan Water

by Robert Burns

For other versions of this work, see Logan Water.

LOGAN WATER.

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide,
That day I was my Willie's bride:
And years sinsyne hae o'er us run,
Like Logan to the summer sun.
But now thy flow'ry banks appear
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far far frae me and Logan braes.

Again the merry month of May,
Has mado our hills and valleys gay,
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers,
Tho bees hum round the breathing flowers
Blythe morning lifts his rosy eye,
And evoning tears are tears of joy;
My soul, delightless, a' surveys,
Whilo Willie's far frae Lóoan braes.

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush,
Amang her nestlings sits tho thrush,
Her faithfu' mate will sharo her toil,
Or wi' his song her cares beguile;
But I wi' my sweet nurslings here,
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer,
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.

O, wao upon you men o'state,
That brethren rouse to deadly hate!
As yo make mony a fond heart mourn,
Sae may it on your heads return.
How can your flinty hearts enjoy,
The widow's tear, the orphan's cry?
But soon may peaco bring happy days,
And Willio hame to Logan braes!