The poetical works of William Nicholson :: :: University of Virginia Library

Thou maid, that sing'st by Logan stream,
Wi' plaintive note, and pensive mien,
While true affection tunes thy lays,
For thy ain lad on Logan braes,
As yon sweet linnet, in the spring,
Teaches her chirpin' young to sing,
So thou, wi' thine, may'st con thy waes—
He'll ne'er see thee, nor Logan braes.

For oh! what bosom without pain,
Can tell our sad mishaps in Spain?—
He's fa'n, wi' Moore, o' deathless praise,
Far, far frae thee and Logan braes.
Wi' sleepless nights, and famine faint,
Fell numbers urged him frae his tent;
Yet aft he, wheelin', faced his faes,
And thought on thee, and Logan braes.

But ere the fatal die was cast,
I saw him nobly breathe his last.—
“Gae, tak that ring,” he faintly says,
“And bear't to Kate, on Logan braes.”
The deadly tale her heart will stound—
But ebbin' life gushed frae ilk wound:
His latest accents spoke thy praise,
And blest his babes on Logan braes.

Ha'e ye no' seen the Autumn flower
Bow down its head wi' e'enin' shower,

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Till chillin' frost its form bewrays,
And lays it low on Logan braes?
She beat her breast—her han's she rung;
Her hapless younglin's round her clung;
What pen, alas! can paint her waes?
She's faintin', fa'n on Logan braes.

But lo! the sodger doft his arms;
Like lightnin', clasped her fleeting charms—
Says, “Ope thine eyes of kindest rays
On thy ain lad on Logan braes.”
These accents kind her spirits cheer;
She views her lad wi' joyfu' tear:
Wi' joy they press—wi' joy they gaze,
And kiss their babes on Logan braes.

“Oh! dearest Kate, can ye forgie
The absent years I've been frae thee?”
Then in her lap a purse he lays,
That he'd brought hame to Logan braes.—
Says,—“This shall help for what is gane,
And I'll ne'er leave thee mair thy lane;
While life-blood in my bosom plays,
I'll stay wi' thee on Logan braes.

“Ilk flutterin' bird mair sweet shall sing;
Ilk blushin' flower mair sweet shall spring;
Our bairns shall herd, and gather slaes
Aroun' our cot, on Logan braes.
To each fond haunt we will repair,
Where I'll tell o'er my deeds o' weir;
While the blythe lambkin round us plays,
And pipes sound shrill on Logan braes.”