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

To thee, that ilk wish in my bosom can claim,
Wha aften I think on, but seldom I name,
I send these few lines, wi' a hearty good will—
Though in writing love verses I sair doubt my skill:
Yet though the coy muse a drear silence should keep,
The wrongs that I bear, and affection, shall speak.

What stopt ye yestreen that ye cam na to see
Your lover sae lonely that doats upon thee?
The winds were a' laid, and the evenin' was clear;
How sweet was the silence! but ye cam na near!
That hour was a time that reflection might suit:
The leaves they lay still, and the birdies were mute;
The gowan was sippin' the saft siller dew;
The brown heather waved, wi' its bells red and blue;

149

The moon shewed the sheet o' the clear mountain stream,
That moved the lake's bosom to dance to her beam.

But I flew to the spot where the trystin' was set,
To the auld scroggèd hawthorn, where aft we had met.
My hopes they were high, but my heart was soon sair—
A hare happit by me—but ye were na there!

I looked and I listened, I hummed o'er a sang;
The south it grew gloomy, the time it grew lang;
I saw the dim shade o' the cloud passin' by;
The stars seemed disordered, and shot in the sky;
Loud roared the blast dreary, and bended the woods;
The moon she seemed feared, and veiled her in clouds.
Tall trees, lately viein' in stature and form,
Flung round their arms widly, and raved in the storm:
The winds and the waves seemed wi' nature at war—
But my mind was as restless, and gloomier far.

The statesman may storm when his schemes ha'e been crost,
The merchant may grieve when his prospects are lost;
But neither can equal the keen throbbin' smart
Of hope disappointed, that wounds the fond heart:
'Tis mine all to feel, as in silence I moan,
Whilst thou, like a careless spectator, look'st on.

What though I be friendless, and poorer than you,
My life's nae less leal, and my love nae less true;
Though friends should deny that you e'er should be mine,
Might na we whiles meet yet to talk o' langsyne:
To tell the first spot where our fancy was moved;
How fair was your beauty, how dearly I loved?
With arms clasped around you, my joys would o'erflow,
When hid frae this world, and a' its vain show.

150

How sweet the dark blasts frae your bosom to shroud!
Love lives in retirement, but dies in the crowd.

Though calm-bluided Prudence her sons may direct
To walk wi' decorum, each step circumspect;
They ne'er knew Love's passions, its beams, or its storms,
That ill can be guided by rules or by forms.
The daisy blooms sweet in its own native plain,
Though chilled by the cauld blast, and beat by the rain:
But see, in the garden, how short is its day;
It withers in riches, its blossoms decay!

Perhaps ane mair wealthy your bosom has charmed,
The glare o' whose gold your young fancy has warmed,
And I left alane here to languish in pain,
While every new day adds a link to the chain.

But where do I wander?—I meant but to tell
The simple auld story,—I love you still well;
And when that the sun is far fled to the west,
When lambs frae their gambols are gane to their rest,
Shall I hope then to see you, to bless these lone arms,
While the moon's silent beams shall add grace to your charms?
Oh! haste then, my love, to the ance valued spot!
The present be ours, and the past be forgot.