Alexander Anderson Poems

Lucy is but a child as yet,
And full of mirth and glee,
But still in Lucy's eye is set
A light that I love to see.
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A sweet love-song, whose early touch—
Ere yet the master-hand grew strong
To strike the chords that felt at such
The wondrous magic of his song—
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What a plague is this o' mine,
Winna steek his e'e,
Though I hap him ow'r the head
As cosie as can be.
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I take the letter up with anxious eyes,
And open it with beating heart, and there,
Within the folded sheet before me lies
A soft and silky lock of baby's hair.
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I sat—in church, of course—and heard
The parson thunder forth his sermon.
'The text!' you say—well that's absurd,
You ask me what I am not firm on.
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'The beings of the mind are not of clay;
Essentially immortal, they create
And multiply in us a brigher ray,
And more beloved existence.'—Childe Harold
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There be more things within that far-off breast,
Whereon the flowers grow
Of the boy poet, in his Roman rest,
Than hearts like ours can know.
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Never through all the years to be
Can there be such a night as that night we know,
When we two stood by a hawthorn tree,
High up on a hill where the night winds blow.
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The hills in the Hielands are bonnie,
Wi' the licht an' the shadow at play;
An' the winds that mak' redder the heather
Far up on the cliff an' the brae.
The white clouds are floatin' abune them,
Like snawdrifts that never can fa',
The hills in the Hielands are bonnie,
The hills in the Hielands are braw!
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One star alone from the blue sky
Looks down upon the simple stream,
With such a quiet, loving eye,
That I perforce must dream.
...