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WHEN on the breath of autumn breeze, From pastures dry and brown, Goes floating like an idle thought The fair white thistle-down, Oh then what joy to walk at will Upon the golden harvest hill!
What joy in dreamy ease to lie
I feel the day-I see the field,
Binding the yellow sheaves;
I see the fields of Bethlehem,
And Boaz looking on;
And Ruth, the Moabite, so fair,
Again I see a little child,
The kind, good Shunammite;
The sun-bathed quiet of the hills,
O golden fields of bending corn,
The reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves,
The sunshine and the very air
'VE wandered east, I've wandered west, Through mony a weary way;
But never, never can forget
The 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 heart Where first fond luve grows cule.
O dear, dear Jeanic Morrison,
The blithe blinks o' langsyne.
'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part;
Sweet time-sad time! twa bairns at scule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart!
'Twas then we sat on ac 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 locked in loof, What our wee heads could think.
When baith bent doun ower ae braid page,
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but
O, mind ye how we hung our heads,
When we ran off to speel the braes,— The broomy braes o' June?
My head rins round and round aboutMy heart flows like a sea,
As ane by ane the thochts rush back
O' scule-time and o' thee.
O mornin' life! O mornin' luve!
O lichtsome days and lang, When hinnied hopes around our hearts Like simmer blossoms sprang!
O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left
To wander by the green burnside,
The throssil whusslit sweet ;
The throssil whusslit in the wood,
And on the knowe abune the burn
For hours thegither sat
In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Tears trinkled doun your cheek Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had 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 thee
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts
O, tell me gin their music fills
O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit
Wi' dreamings 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
And channels deeper, as it rins,
O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sindered young I've never seen your face, nor heard The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I die,
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed O' bygane days and me!