Jeanie Morrison

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,Through mony a weary way;But never, never can forgetThe luve o' life's young day!The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en,May weel be black gin Yule;But blacker fa' awaits the heartWhere first fond luve grows cule.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,The thochts o' bygane yearsStill fling their shadows ower my path,And blind my een wi' tears:They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,And sair and sick I pine,As memory idly summons upThe blithe blinks o' langsyne.

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel,'Twas then we twa did part;Sweet time—sad time! twa bairns at seule,Twa bairns, and but ae heart!'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,To leir ilk ither lear;And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed,Remembered evermair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,When sitting on that bink,Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof,What our wee heads could think?When baith bent doun ower ae braid page,Wi' ae buik on our knee,Thy lips were on thy lesson, butMy lesson was in thee.

Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads,How cheeks brent red wi' shame,Whene'er the scule-weans laughin' said,We cleek'd thegither hame?And mind ye o' the Saturdays,(The seule then skail't at noon,)

When we ran aff to speel the braes—The broomy braes o' June?

Aly head rins round and round about,Aly heart flows like a sea,As ane by ane the thochts rush backO' scule-time and o' thee.Oh, mornin' life! oh, mornin' luve!Oh lichtsome days and lang,When hinnied hopes around our heartsLike simmer blossoms sprang!

Oh mind ye, luve, how aft we leftThe deavin' dinsome toun,To wander by the green burnside,And hear its waters croon?The simmer leaves hung ower our headsThe flowers burst round our feet,And in the gloamin o' the wood,The throssil whusslit sweet;

The throssil whusslit in the wood.The burn sang to the trees,

And we with Nature's heart in tune,Concerted harmonies;And on the knowe abune the burn,For hours thegither satIn the silentness o' joy, till baithWi' very gladness grat.

Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison,Tears trinkled doun your cheek,Like dew-beads on a rose, yet naneHad ony power to speak!That was a time, a blessed time,When hearts were fresh and young,When freely gushed all feelings forth,Unsyllabled—unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,Gin I hae been to theeAs closely twined wi' earliest thochts,As ye hae been to me?Oh! tell me gin their music fillsThine ear as it does mine;Oh! say gin e'er your heart grows gritWi' dr earnings o' langsyne?

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,I've borne a weary lot;But in my wanderings, far or near,Ye never were forgot.The fount that first burst frae this heart,Still travels on its way;And channels deeper as it rins,The luve o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,Since we were sindered young,I've never seen your face, nor heardThe music o' your tongue;But I could hug all wretchedness,And happy could I die,Did I but ken your heart still dreamedO' bygane days and me!