Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/426



wi' her I luved yestreen, I met her wi' a look o' sorrow; My leave I took o' her for aye, A weddit bride she'll be the morrow!

She durst na gie ae smile to me, Nor drap ae word o* kindly feelin', Yet down her cheeks the bitter tears, In monie a pearly bead, were stealin'.

I could na my lost luve upbraid, Altho' my dearest hopes were blighted I could na say—'ye're fause to me!'— Tho' to anither she was plighted.

Like suthfast friens whom death divides, In Heaven to meet, we silent parted; Nae voice had we our griefs to speak, We felt sae lone and broken-hearted.