 | The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson |  |
WILL O' THE GLEN.
When lav'rocks were singin', and gowans were springin',
Young Will o' the Glen cam a wooin' to me!
My heart how it panted, he sought me, 'twas granted,
For Willy was a' a fond wooer sould be:
Far dearest o' onie, was he to his Annie;
I gied him my hand, tho' my tocher was sma';
Scarce pleasures we tasted, ere hopes were a' blasted—
War forc'd my sad Willy to wander awa'.
Young Will o' the Glen cam a wooin' to me!
My heart how it panted, he sought me, 'twas granted,
For Willy was a' a fond wooer sould be:
230
I gied him my hand, tho' my tocher was sma';
Scarce pleasures we tasted, ere hopes were a' blasted—
War forc'd my sad Willy to wander awa'.
Three lang years were over, and I for my lover,
In simmer, in winter, did naething but mourn;
I droop'd like a lily, nor e'er hop'd my Willy
To friens or his partner again would return:
To-day sunk in sadness, to-morrow brings gladness,
Ae night by the hallan, I heard a voice ca',
“Come kiss me, my Annie! I'm happiest o' onie;
And nae mair thy Willy will wander awa'.”
In simmer, in winter, did naething but mourn;
I droop'd like a lily, nor e'er hop'd my Willy
To friens or his partner again would return:
To-day sunk in sadness, to-morrow brings gladness,
Ae night by the hallan, I heard a voice ca',
“Come kiss me, my Annie! I'm happiest o' onie;
And nae mair thy Willy will wander awa'.”
The pride o' his neebors, he laughs, and he labours;
Wi' twa rosy weans, I sing at my wheel;
At e'enin' we meet him, they kiss him, and greet him,
And ay his delight is to see us a' leel:
While monie hunt treasure, my Willy's hale pleasure
Is, that health rules his cottage, and smiles on us a';
We'll toil on thegethir, and comfort ilk ither,
In hopes to be ready, when death gies us a ca'!
Wi' twa rosy weans, I sing at my wheel;
At e'enin' we meet him, they kiss him, and greet him,
And ay his delight is to see us a' leel:
While monie hunt treasure, my Willy's hale pleasure
Is, that health rules his cottage, and smiles on us a';
We'll toil on thegethir, and comfort ilk ither,
In hopes to be ready, when death gies us a ca'!
| The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson | |