It's dowie in the hint o' hairst,
At the wa-gang o' the swallow,
When the wind grows cauld, and the
burns grow bauld,
And the wuds are hingin' yellow ;
But oh, it's dowier far to see
The wa-gang o' her the hert gangs
wi',
The deid-set o' a shinin' e'e -
That darkens the weary world on
thee.
There was mickle love atween us
twa -
Oh, twa could ne'er been fonder ;
And the thing on yird was never
made,
That could ha'e gart us sunder.
But the way of Heaven's abune a'
ken,
And we maun bear what it likes to
sen' -
It's comfort, though, to weary
men,
That the warst o' this warld's
waes maun en'.
There's mony things that come and
gae,
Just kent, and syne forgotten ;
And the flowers that busk a bonnie
brae,
Gin anither year lie rotten.
But the last look o' that lovely
e'e,
And the dying grip she ga'e to me,
They're settled like eternitie -
Oh, Mary ! that I were wi' thee.
