Poems, on sacred and other subjects and songs, humorous and sentimental: By the late William Watt. Third edition of the songs only--with additional songs |
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Address to Line Water.
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 | Poems, on sacred and other subjects |  |
Address to Line Water.
Dear stream, upon thy banks sae green
I pass'd my infant years away,
A sportive boy, wi' glancin' een,
And flaxen ringlets wavin' gay.
To gather pebbles purely white,
That in thy crystal waves did shine,
I aften waded wi' delight
Amang thy purlin' fords, O Line.
I pass'd my infant years away,
A sportive boy, wi' glancin' een,
And flaxen ringlets wavin' gay.
336
That in thy crystal waves did shine,
I aften waded wi' delight
Amang thy purlin' fords, O Line.
Then was unknown the frown o' care,
Then all was glad wi' pleasure's smile,
Then was not laid sly vice's snare,
For then it could not me beguile:
Day after day sped lightly on,
While but the present I did min',
And nought but Eden-bliss was known
By me, upon the banks o' Line.
Then all was glad wi' pleasure's smile,
Then was not laid sly vice's snare,
For then it could not me beguile:
Day after day sped lightly on,
While but the present I did min',
And nought but Eden-bliss was known
By me, upon the banks o' Line.
But human pleasures vanish fast
As morn's faint dawnin' frae the skies,
When bright the blazin' sun at last
Doth owre the gilt horizon rise;
And fair my morning's magic dawn
Awoke, foreshowin' no decline,
Till time display'd th' enchantin' lawn,
Delusive all, when far frae Line.
As morn's faint dawnin' frae the skies,
When bright the blazin' sun at last
Doth owre the gilt horizon rise;
And fair my morning's magic dawn
Awoke, foreshowin' no decline,
Till time display'd th' enchantin' lawn,
Delusive all, when far frae Line.
Half mix'd wi' pleasure and wi' woe,
Sensations strange my bosom burn,
When retrospection back doth throw
A look on joys ne'er to return.
Anticipation nought can spy
To equal those sweet days divine,
When, 'neath the summer evenin' sky,
I gambol'd on the banks o' Line.
Sensations strange my bosom burn,
When retrospection back doth throw
A look on joys ne'er to return.
Anticipation nought can spy
To equal those sweet days divine,
When, 'neath the summer evenin' sky,
I gambol'd on the banks o' Line.
Ah! who can tell whence springs in man
This veneration for the place
Where time to him her march began;
A love which nothing can efface?
Ah, none! but yet I feel the power
Around my heart the bands entwine,
Which shall, till life's last dreary hour,
Make dear to me thy banks, O Line.
This veneration for the place
Where time to him her march began;
A love which nothing can efface?
Ah, none! but yet I feel the power
Around my heart the bands entwine,
Which shall, till life's last dreary hour,
Make dear to me thy banks, O Line.
What though less deck'd wi' cooling shades
Of birks and aspens by thee waving?
What though the murmuring cascades
Be few, thy brink wi' eddies laving?
Yet dearer far than woods and rocks,
Where grandeur rude and gloom combine,
Are thy green mounds, where bleating flocks
Browse on thy lovely banks, O Line.
Of birks and aspens by thee waving?
What though the murmuring cascades
Be few, thy brink wi' eddies laving?
337
Where grandeur rude and gloom combine,
Are thy green mounds, where bleating flocks
Browse on thy lovely banks, O Line.
Could reason hope to find that joy
Which youth once felt serenely pure?
While I, an ambling harmless boy,
Roam'd artless wi' the fisher's lure!
To gain that pleasure, now all fled,
Each other aim I would resign;
And, roused to transport, fondly tread
Thy sweet, but distant banks, O Line.
Which youth once felt serenely pure?
While I, an ambling harmless boy,
Roam'd artless wi' the fisher's lure!
To gain that pleasure, now all fled,
Each other aim I would resign;
And, roused to transport, fondly tread
Thy sweet, but distant banks, O Line.
But no glad prospect opens bright
To gild sad sorrow's frowning gloom;
All seems a dark and dreary night,
And ended by the lonely tomb.
Still, while I tread the sterile ground,
I'll muse on joys I felt langsyne,
Which youth, ere known to care, hath found
Upon thy verdant banks, O Line.
To gild sad sorrow's frowning gloom;
All seems a dark and dreary night,
And ended by the lonely tomb.
Still, while I tread the sterile ground,
I'll muse on joys I felt langsyne,
Which youth, ere known to care, hath found
Upon thy verdant banks, O Line.
| Poems, on sacred and other subjects | |