Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/449



nae mair o' me, sweet May! O think nae mair o' me! I'm but a wearied ghaist, sweet May, That hath a wierd to dree; That langs to leave a warld, sweet May, O' eerie dull and pain, And pines to gang the gate, sweet May, That its first luve hath gane!

Although the form is here, sweet May, The spirit is na sae; It wanders to anither land— A far and lonely way. My bower is near a ruined kirk, Hard by a grass-green grave, Where, fed wi' tears, the gilliflowcrs Above a true heart wave!

Then think nae mair o' me, sweet May, If I had luve to gie,