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Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver

By William Thom. Edited, with a Biographical Sketch, by W. Skinner

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WHISPER LOW.
 
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WHISPER LOW.

Slowly, slowly the cauld moon creeps
Wi' a licht unlo'esome to see;
It dwalls on the window whaur my love sleeps,
An' she winna wauken to me.
Wearie, wearie the hours, and slow,
Wauken, my lovie, an' whisper low!

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There's nae ae sang in heaven's hicht,
Nor on the green earth doun,
Like soun's that kind love kens at nicht,
When whispers hap the soun';
Hearin'—fearin'—sichin' so—
Whisper, my bonnie lovie, whisper low!
They lack nae licht wha weel can speak
In love's ain wordless wile;
Her ee-bree creepin' on my cheek
Betrays her pawkie smile;
Happy—happy—silent so—
Breathin'—bonnie lovie, whisper low!
Was yon a waft o' her wee white han',
Wi' a warnin' “wheesht” to me?
Or was it a gleam o' that fause moon fa'in'
On my puir misguided e'e?
Wearie—wearie—wearie O—
Wauken, my lovie, an' whisper low!