MY AIN KIND THING.
SONG XX.
1
O hap me frae the cauld blast,
My ain kind Jean;
The moon has stray'd amang the storm,
The stars are blawn up blin':
The snaw o'er the hill-top
Comes thick in the win';
O rise and let me in,
And thowe me in thy bosom,
My ain kind thing.
2
O listen to the wild swan,
Forsaking the spring,
And rustling with the ice-sleet
He plumes from his wing:
The small bird's frozen on the perch,
Nae mair to lilt and sing,
Or awake you in the spring;
Oh! pity then your leal love,
My ain kind thing.
3
For love sings mair sweetly
Than bird upon the bough;
Blows lovelier than the violet
The verdure blooming through;
And thrives amid the mirkest storm,
As daisy 'mang May-dew;—
Put forth thy hand and pu',
And plant it in thy bosom,
For ever for to grow.
4
Like fair Aurora's star
Rising through the morning smoke,
She rose, and from her fingers
Let fall her golden roke:
Up to her secret chamber,
By the heavy tempest shook,
The duteous lad she took,
And warm'd him in her bosom
Till the winter sun awoke.
