 | Ochil Idylls and Other Poems |  |
85
HALF AN HOUR IN MAY.
They're a' whirlin' doun
The leaves that lapp'd my childhood;
The blossoms o' youth,
How sune they pass'd away!
Bare, bare, an' brown
Already is the wildwood—
It's autumn in sooth,
The season of decay!
The leaves that lapp'd my childhood;
The blossoms o' youth,
How sune they pass'd away!
Bare, bare, an' brown
Already is the wildwood—
It's autumn in sooth,
The season of decay!
The sun, shining cauld,
Looks in upon my bareness;
How bleak are the boughs
That shake against the sky!
The wind, blawing bauld,
It mocks me for my spareness,
It sports with the vows
That broken round me lie.
Looks in upon my bareness;
How bleak are the boughs
That shake against the sky!
The wind, blawing bauld,
It mocks me for my spareness,
It sports with the vows
That broken round me lie.
The sweet birds of sang
That I sae fondly finger'd,—
They sang a' the spring,
They nestled in my breast;
They're gane too, tho' lang
The pretty darlings linger'd,
They've a' liftit wing
An' left me—like the rest.
That I sae fondly finger'd,—
They sang a' the spring,
They nestled in my breast;
86
The pretty darlings linger'd,
They've a' liftit wing
An' left me—like the rest.
With song-bowers mute,
A cauld wind that blusters,
An' wan leaves that stey
To trem'le but, an' fa',—
O what boots the fruit
The few an' naked clusters?
Ae half hour in Mey,
It's mair than worth them a'!
A cauld wind that blusters,
An' wan leaves that stey
To trem'le but, an' fa',—
O what boots the fruit
The few an' naked clusters?
Ae half hour in Mey,
It's mair than worth them a'!
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