Page:Mary, O.pdf/7

7 An' years sinsyne hae o'er us run,

Like Logan to the summer sun.

But now thy flowery banks appear

Like drumlie winter, dark and drear,

While my dear lad maun face his faes,

Far, far frae me and Logan braes.

Again the merry month o' May

Has made our hills and vallies gay,

The birds rejoice in leafy bow'rs,

The bees, hum round the breathing flowers.

Blythe morning lifts his rosy eye,

And evenings tears are tears of joy;

My soul, delightless, a' surveys,

While Willie's far frae Logan braes.

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush,

Amang her nestlings sits the thrush;

Her faithfu' mate will share her toil,

Or wi' his sang her cares beguile.

But I wi' my sweet nurslings here,

Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer,

Pass widowed nights, and joyless days,

While Willie's far frae Logan braes.

O, wae upon you, men o' state,

That brethren route to deadly hate?

As ye mak monie a fond heart mourn,

Sae may it on your heads return!