Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver By William Thom. Edited, with a Biographical Sketch, by W. Skinner |
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LINES TO MISS LUCY LAWRENCE OTTLEY. |
 | Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver |  |
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LINES TO MISS LUCY LAWRENCE OTTLEY.
Written at Naish, July, 1841.
You may not love the lay
Unhallow'd by a tear,
And she that's far away
Claims all that I can spare;
But when I let her ken,
How ye have pleasured me,
She winna grudge it then
Ae parting tear to thee.
Unhallow'd by a tear,
And she that's far away
Claims all that I can spare;
But when I let her ken,
How ye have pleasured me,
She winna grudge it then
Ae parting tear to thee.
When other hours recall
The joys that I ha'e seen
In England's happy hall,
On England's flowery green,
When my own native lark
Floats o'er my native lea,
What can I then but mark
Its kindred melody?
The joys that I ha'e seen
In England's happy hall,
On England's flowery green,
When my own native lark
Floats o'er my native lea,
What can I then but mark
Its kindred melody?
For never yet mair sweet,
Has lark or mavis sung;
And, oh! that face to meet
That saftly witching tongue!
My lastening heart will prize
Your sang o' sweetness mair
Than carols frae the skies,
Wi' a' its gladness there.
Has lark or mavis sung;
And, oh! that face to meet
That saftly witching tongue!
My lastening heart will prize
Your sang o' sweetness mair
Than carols frae the skies,
Wi' a' its gladness there.
88
My lowland lassie sings
Far sweeter than the rest;
And a' her leal heart rings
In sangs that I love best.
Sae whan her soul-filled strain
Fa's trembling on my ear,
Oh! but I'll mind them then,—
The sangs you sang me here.
Far sweeter than the rest;
And a' her leal heart rings
In sangs that I love best.
Sae whan her soul-filled strain
Fa's trembling on my ear,
Oh! but I'll mind them then,—
The sangs you sang me here.
When o'er thy violet brow,
And on thy changing cheek,
And 'neath that breast of snow,
A thousand throbbings speak.
Oh, may the favoured ane
Thy fair perfections see!
And love with love alane
Befitting heaven and thee.
And on thy changing cheek,
And 'neath that breast of snow,
A thousand throbbings speak.
Oh, may the favoured ane
Thy fair perfections see!
And love with love alane
Befitting heaven and thee.
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