Robert Anderson Poems

Here bleach the bones of Akel Bulbee,
Such a thief ne'er hung on ...
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Affection tender rears this humble stone,
A mould'ring mark of gratitude, to one
Whose thoughts ambition never taught to stray,
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Reader, if worth departed claims a tear,
Life's poor frail wand'rer, pay that tribute here,
To one, in whom as daughter, sister, wife,
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Take, best of parents, all a son can give
To one, who living, taught him how to live;
And, O may I, when number'd with the dead,
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How sweet 'tis to rove at the close of the day,
O'er daisy--clad meads, by a soft murm'ring rill,
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The village bell proclaim'd to Labour rest;
The parting sun reel'd down the saffron'd west;
His mild rays gleaming softly ting'd the wood,
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Above the grey--hills of the East,
Blithe morning smil'd in saffron drest,
With silver dew besprent;
When Margaret left her chamber fair,
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``Sir Hugh! Fair Margaret! Sir Hugh!''
The servants call around;
In vain, Fair Margaret, Sir Hugh,
Around the servants loudly call,
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Adieu, ye dun heaths, purple vales, and wild flowers,
Ye banks whose proud steeps in green verdure are drest;
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Wee Wully wuns on yonder brow,
And Wully he hes dowters twee;
But nought cud feckless Wully dui,
To get them sweethearts weel to see.
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