 | Poems And Songs |  |
177
TO A SPRIGLET.
[_]
[Sometimes, in damp places in pits, there springs from the “trees” used to support the roof a tiny white spray, which dies ere it attains a tint of green. By one of these the following stanzas were suggested.]
Puir, sickly spriglet, pale and clear,
This sunless cavern, dark and drear,
Was never meant the life to cheer
O' plants like thee—
I sairly doubt thou'lt flourish here
Nae mair than me.
This sunless cavern, dark and drear,
Was never meant the life to cheer
O' plants like thee—
I sairly doubt thou'lt flourish here
Nae mair than me.
Alas! the wood is far awa'
Whare thou thy twa-leafed tap should shaw,
Whare thou might been a branch fu' braw
Of stately beech,
And cradled aft a nestling craw,
Safe oot of reach.
Whare thou thy twa-leafed tap should shaw,
Whare thou might been a branch fu' braw
Of stately beech,
And cradled aft a nestling craw,
Safe oot of reach.
178
Lone sprig, nae wooing April sun
Thee from thy parent tree has won;
Thou to the hues of Autumn dun
Nae touch wilt lend;
In gloom thy transient life begun,
In gloom will end.
Thee from thy parent tree has won;
Thou to the hues of Autumn dun
Nae touch wilt lend;
In gloom thy transient life begun,
In gloom will end.
Near thee nae amorous cushie-doo
To's listening mate will sit and coo;
Thou never of the morning dew
Wilt drink thy share,
Nor shimmer, when the sun breaks through,
In pearls fu' rare.
To's listening mate will sit and coo;
Thou never of the morning dew
Wilt drink thy share,
Nor shimmer, when the sun breaks through,
In pearls fu' rare.
When winds lay by their winter whistle,
And snow thaws off the sprooting thistle,
When withered leaves nae langer rustle
Owre woodland heather,
Thou wilt not bloom by Crookston Castle,
Whare grew thy mither.
And snow thaws off the sprooting thistle,
When withered leaves nae langer rustle
Owre woodland heather,
Thou wilt not bloom by Crookston Castle,
Whare grew thy mither.
179
When Boreas fills that castle lone,
At night's drear noon, wi' eerie moan,
That seems to come frae mortals gone
Whare nane can tell,
Thou wilt not wave the fancied groan
Of ghost to swell.
At night's drear noon, wi' eerie moan,
That seems to come frae mortals gone
Whare nane can tell,
Thou wilt not wave the fancied groan
Of ghost to swell.
And when the leafy branches try
How like a lover they can sigh,
The imitation sweet will fly
From tree to tree,
Receiving, as it passes by,
Nae aid frae thee.
How like a lover they can sigh,
The imitation sweet will fly
From tree to tree,
Receiving, as it passes by,
Nae aid frae thee.
In fortune thou'rt akin to me;
We baith are what we loathe to be;
We sunless, sighfu' days will dree
Wi' ane anither—
In some disastrous hour may dee,
Ere lang, thegither.
We baith are what we loathe to be;
We sunless, sighfu' days will dree
Wi' ane anither—
In some disastrous hour may dee,
Ere lang, thegither.
| Poems And Songs | |