The blind lassie.
[Thomas C. Latto.— Here first printed.—Tune, "The Flower o' Dunblane."]
O hark to the strain that sae sweetly is ringin',
And echoing clearly o'er lake and o'er lea,
Like some fairy bird in the wilderness singin',
It thrills to my heart, yet nae minstrel I see.
Round yonder rock knittin', a dear child is sittin',
Sae toilin' her pitifu' pittance is won,
Hersel' tho' we see nae, 'tis mitherless Jeanie,—
The bonnie blind lassie that sits i' the sun.
Five years syne come autumn she cam' wi' her mither,
A sodger's puir widow, sair wasted an' gane;
As brown fell the leaves, sae wi' them did she wither,
And left the sweet child on the wide world her lane.
She left Jeanie weepin', in His holy keepin'
Wha shelters the lamb frae the cauld wintry win',
We had little siller, yet a' were good till her,
The bonnie blind lassie that sits i' the sun.
An' blythe now an' cheerfu', frae mornin' to e'enin'
She sits thro' the simmer, an' gladdens ilk ear,
Baith auld and young daut her, sae gentle and winnin',
To a' the folks round, the wee lassie is dear.
Braw leddies caress her, wi' bounties would press her,
The modest bit darlin' their notice would shun,
For though she has naething, proud hearted this wee thing,
The bonnie blind lassie that sits i' the sun.