The autumn leaves.
[Alex. Maclaggan.—Here first printed.]
The autumn leaves fa' fast, dear May,
O! weary fully fast,
Poor blighted things, they canna thole
The buffets o' ilk blast.
The birds will soon be mute, dear May,
The sweet flowers dead an' gane,
And soon ilk strippet tree will stand
As bare's yon auld mile stane
The black bat flitts—the howlet hoots
Frae Roslin's castle wa',
The wicked spirit o' the winds
Raves through ilk hoary ha'.
Rude ruin on the rafters bare
Has fix'd his gorin teeth,
And the pick-axe o' the labourin' wight
Is working hard beneath.
The roarin' lin', the waves, the win',
Sing sadly i' the ear,
That winter, wi' his hoasts an' frosts,
And caulds and cramps, is near.
And when the wreckin' tempest sweeps
Athwart the leafless lea,
And shakes ilk biggin' to the found,
O' wha will shelter thee?
Nae brither brave, nae sister sweet,
Greets thee with kindred smile;
Thy honour'd father's auld grey hairs
Lie 'neath our abbey-isle.
Your mither on her cauld death-bed
Aft fondly turn'd to thee,
Syne grasp'd my hand, and, weepin', left
Her wee pet lamb to me.
Why weeps my early love? why heaves
With sighs thy gentle breast?
Beshrew these silly words o' mine,
That wreck thy bosom's rest!
For why should I stand haverin' here,
Like pulin' hopeless swain,
When ilka blush, and sigh, and tear,
Declares ye a' my ain!