 | Poems and songs |  |
51
THE WAITS.
Aft whan the Waits were playing by,
I've marked their viol wi' a sigh;
Sad as the sounds that never die,
O' partings sweet;
Dear as a mither's lullaby,
Whan babies greet.
Silver Gun.
I've marked their viol wi' a sigh;
Sad as the sounds that never die,
O' partings sweet;
Dear as a mither's lullaby,
Whan babies greet.
Silver Gun.
Wha's this, wi' voice o' music sweet,
Sae early wakes the weary wight?
O weel ken I them by their souch,
The wandering Minstrels o' the night:
O weel ken I their bonny lilts,
Their sweetest notes o' melody;
Fu' aft they've thrilled out-through my saul,
An' gart the tear fill ilka e'e.
Sae early wakes the weary wight?
O weel ken I them by their souch,
The wandering Minstrels o' the night:
O weel ken I their bonny lilts,
Their sweetest notes o' melody;
Fu' aft they've thrilled out-through my saul,
An' gart the tear fill ilka e'e.
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O sweetest Minstrels! weet your pipe,
A sad an' waefu' note to blaw;
Syne souf the “Braes o' Yarrow green,”
Or, “A' the Flowers are wed awa!”
For O they're sweet—as Memory sweet,
Whan on the happy past we feast;
Saft as the deep an' melting sigh,
That aften steals frae Pity's breast.
A sad an' waefu' note to blaw;
Syne souf the “Braes o' Yarrow green,”
Or, “A' the Flowers are wed awa!”
For O they're sweet—as Memory sweet,
Whan on the happy past we feast;
Saft as the deep an' melting sigh,
That aften steals frae Pity's breast.
O sweetest Minstrels! weet your pipe,
A tender note o' love to blaw;
Syne souf the “Broom o' Cowdenknowes,”
Or “Roslin Castle's ruined wa'.”
They bring to mind the happy hours
Fu' aft I've spent wi' Jenny dear.—
Ah! now ye touch the very note
That gars me sigh, an' drap a tear.
A tender note o' love to blaw;
Syne souf the “Broom o' Cowdenknowes,”
Or “Roslin Castle's ruined wa'.”
They bring to mind the happy hours
Fu' aft I've spent wi' Jenny dear.—
Ah! now ye touch the very note
That gars me sigh, an' drap a tear.
Your fremit lilts I downa bide,
They never yield a charm for me;
Unlike our ain, by Nature made,
Unlike the saft delight they gie.
For weel I ween they warm the breast,
Though sair oppressed wi' poortith cauld;
An' sae an auld man's heart they cheer,
He tines the thought that he is auld.
They never yield a charm for me;
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Unlike the saft delight they gie.
For weel I ween they warm the breast,
Though sair oppressed wi' poortith cauld;
An' sae an auld man's heart they cheer,
He tines the thought that he is auld.
O sweetest Minstrels! halt a wee:
Anither lilt afore ye gang,
An' syne I'll close my waukrife e'e,
Enraptured wi' your bonny sang.
[OMITTED]
They're gane!—The morn begins to dawn;
They're weary paidlin through the weet:
They're gane—but on my ravished ear
The dying sounds yet thrill fu' sweet.
Anither lilt afore ye gang,
An' syne I'll close my waukrife e'e,
Enraptured wi' your bonny sang.
[OMITTED]
They're gane!—The morn begins to dawn;
They're weary paidlin through the weet:
They're gane—but on my ravished ear
The dying sounds yet thrill fu' sweet.
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