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And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw; It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he's been long awa.
There's twa fat hens upo' the coop,
Been fed this month and mair;
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare ;
And mak our table neat and clean,
Let everything look braw,
For wha can tell how Colin fared
When he was far awa ?
Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,
His breath like caller air; His very foot has music in't
As he comes up the stair.
And shall I see his face again ?
And shall I hear him speak ?
I'm downright dizzy'wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet !
The cauld blasts o' the winter wind,
That thirlèd through my heart,
They're a' blawn by, I hae him safe,
Till death we'll never part ;
But what puts parting in my head ?
It may be far awa!
The present moment is our ain,
The neist we never saw.
Since Colin's weel, and weel content,
I hae no mair to crave ;
And gin I live to keep him sae,
I'm blest aboon the lave.
And will I see his face again ?
And will I hear him speak ?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.
For there's nae luck about th' house,
There's nae luck at a';
There's little pleasure in th' house
When our gudeman's awa.
0, lovely rose !
Tell her that wastes her time and me
That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.
And shuns to have her graces spied,
That, hadst thou sprung
In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retired ;
Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desired,
And not blush so to be admired.
Then die ! that she
The common fate of all things rare
May read in thee,
How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair !
HILD of the Country! free as air
Art thou, and as the sunshine fair;
Born like the lily, where the dew Lies odorous when the day is new ; Fed 'mid the May-flowers like the bee, Nursed to sweet music on the knee, Lull'd in the breast to that sweet tune Which winds make 'mong the woods of June : I sing of thee:-'tis sweet to sing Of such a fair and gladsome thing.
Child of the Town ! for thee I sigh ;
A gilded roof's thy golden sky,
A carpet is thy daisied sod,
A narrow street thy boundless wood,
Thy rushing deer's the clattering tramp
Of watchmen, thy best light's a lamp, -
Through smoke, and not through trellised vines
And blooming trees, thy sunbeam shines :
I sing of thee in sadness; where
Else is wreck wrought in aught so fair ?
Child of the Country! thy small feet
Tread on strawberries red and sweet :
With thee I wander forth to see
The flowers which most delight the bee;
The bush o'er which the throstle sung
In April while she nutsed her young ;
The dew beneath the sloe-thorn, where
She bred her twins the timorous hare;
The knoll wrought o'er with wild blue-bells,
Where brown bees build their balmy cells,
The greenwood stream, the shady pool,
Where trouts leap when the day is cool.
Child of the Town ! for thee, alas !
Glad Nature spreads no flowers nor grass ;
Birds build no nests, nor in the sun
Glad streams come singing as they run :
A Maypole is thy blossom'd tree;
A beetle is thy murmuring bee;
Thy bird is caged, thy dove is where
The poulterer dwells, beside the hare;
Thy fruit is pluck'd, and by the pound
Hawk'd, clamorous, o'er the city round;
No roses, twin-born on the stalk,
Perfume thee in thy evening walk ;
No voice of birds,—but to thee comes
The mingled din of cars and drums,