The Shepherd To His Love Poem by Violet Jacob

ABUIN the hill ae muckle star is burnin,
Sae saft an still, my dear, sae far awa,
There's ne'er a wind, noo day to nicht is turnin,
To lift the brainches o the whisperin shaw;
Aye, Jess, there's nane to see,
There's juist the sheep an me,
An ane's fair wastit when there micht be twa!
Alang the knowes there's no a beast that's movin,
They sheep o mine lie sleepin i' the dew;
There's jist ae thing that's wearyin an rovin,
An that's mysel, that wearies, wantin you.
What ails ye, that ye bide
In-by - an me ootside
To curse an daunder a' the gloamin throu?
To haud my tongue an aye hae patience wi ye
Is waur nor what a lass like you can guess;
For a' yer pranks I canna but forgie ye,
I'fegs! there's naucht can gar me loe ye less;
Heeven's i' yer een, an whiles
There's heeven i' yer smiles,
But oh! ye tak a deal o coortin, Jess!