And won him the glory Of undying song. Keen cleaver of gay crests, Sharp piercer of broad breasts, Grim slayer of heroes, And scourge of the strong. FAME GIVER! I kiss thee. In a love more abiding Than that the heart knows, For maiden more lovely Stout hauberk and shield. The smile of a maiden's eye Fair woman's heart; But thy metal's as true As its polish is bright; When ills wax in number, Thy love will not slumber, But starlike, burns fiercer, The darker the night. HEART GLADDENER! I kiss thee. My kindred have perished IV. JEANIE MORRISON. I'VE wandered east, I've wandered west, But never, never can forget The luve o' life's young day! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en, O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Still fling their shadows ower my path, As memory idly summons up 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 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, C When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, Wi' ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, (The scule then skail't at noon,) When we ran aff to speel the braesThe broomy braes o' June? My head rins round and round about, As ane by ane the thochts rush back Oh, mornin' life! oh, mornin' luve! O mind ye, luve, how aft we left The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, The throssil whusslit in the wood, And on the knowe abune the burn, In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' very gladness grat. Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, When hearts were fresh and young, I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts, Oh! tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine; Oh! 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, Still travels on its way; And channels deeper as it rins, The luve o' life's young day. O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, |