Peter Cornclips A Tale of Real Life; With Other Poems & Songs, By Alexander Rodger |
 |
 |
|
WHEN GLOAMIN' SPREADS HER MANTLE GREY. |
|
 | Peter Cornclips |  |
WHEN GLOAMIN' SPREADS HER MANTLE GREY.
When gloamin' spreads her mantle grey,
O'er ilka hill and valley,
And little lambs nae langer play,
Upon the lea sae gaily.
Then through the wood aboon the mill,
Wi' willing steps I aften steal,
Wi' my dear lad I loe sae weel,
My constant, loving Willie.
O'er ilka hill and valley,
And little lambs nae langer play,
Upon the lea sae gaily.
165
Wi' willing steps I aften steal,
Wi' my dear lad I loe sae weel,
My constant, loving Willie.
While wandering through our shaded walks,
What dear delight I feel aye,
To hear him as he fondly talks,
Avow his love sae freely;
Or when our arms we fondly link,
And stray by Kelvin's grassy brink,
What pure delicious joys I drink,
Pour'd frae the lips o' Willie.
What dear delight I feel aye,
To hear him as he fondly talks,
Avow his love sae freely;
Or when our arms we fondly link,
And stray by Kelvin's grassy brink,
What pure delicious joys I drink,
Pour'd frae the lips o' Willie.
How sweet the mavis sings at e'en,
When a' is hush'd sae stilly;
How sweet his melting mellow strain,
Comes echoing down the valley;
How sweet to breathe the scented gale,
That lightly skiffs yon clover vale,
But sweeter far the melting tale,
And balmy breath o' Willie.
When a' is hush'd sae stilly;
How sweet his melting mellow strain,
Comes echoing down the valley;
How sweet to breathe the scented gale,
That lightly skiffs yon clover vale,
But sweeter far the melting tale,
And balmy breath o' Willie.
166
The rose blooms on his cheek sae smooth,
Upon his brow the lily,
His bosom is the seat of truth,
Which love and honour fill aye;
His manly look and gracefu' form,
Might ony lassie's bosom warm;
But native worth, O that's the charm,
That binds me to my Willie.
Upon his brow the lily,
His bosom is the seat of truth,
Which love and honour fill aye;
His manly look and gracefu' form,
Might ony lassie's bosom warm;
But native worth, O that's the charm,
That binds me to my Willie.
Our Squire, to lure me, tries ilk art,
Wi' a' his airs sae silly,
But never shall he move the heart,
That beats alone for Willie;
For ere to-morrow's sun decline,
The Priest our willing hands will join,
And mak' the dear, dear laddie mine,
My life, my joy, my Willie.
Wi' a' his airs sae silly,
But never shall he move the heart,
That beats alone for Willie;
For ere to-morrow's sun decline,
The Priest our willing hands will join,
And mak' the dear, dear laddie mine,
My life, my joy, my Willie.
| Peter Cornclips | |