Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/318

300

autumn leaves fa' fast, dear May,

O! weary fully fast,

Poor blighted things, they canna thole

The buffets o' ilk blast.

The birds will soon be mute, dear May,

The sweet flowers dead an' gane,

And soon ilk strippet tree will stand

As bare's yon auld mile stane

The black bat flitts—the howlet hoots

Frae Roslin's castle wa',

The wicked spirit o' the winds

Raves through ilk hoary ha'.

Rude ruin on the rafters bare

Has fix'd his gorin teeth,

And the pick-axe o' the labourin' wight

Is working hard beneath.

The roarin' lin', the waves, the win',

Sing sadly i' the ear,

That winter, wi' his hoasts an' frosts,

And caulds and cramps, is near.

And when the wreckin' tempest sweeps

Athwart the leafless lea,

And shakes ilk biggin' to the found,

O' wha will shelter thee?

Nae brither brave, nae sister sweet,

Greets thee with kindred smile;

Thy honour'd father's auld grey hairs

Lie 'neath our abbey-isle.

Your mither on her cauld death-bed

Aft fondly turn'd to thee,

Syne grasp'd my hand, and, weepin', left

Her wee pet lamb to me.

Why weeps my early love? why heaves

With sighs thy gentle breast?

Beshrew these silly words o' mine,

That wreck thy bosom's rest!