Robert Anderson Poems

Yes! there are pleasures some ne'er know,
And there are pains too many prove;
And bliss is oft the source of woe,
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Why sighs yon wretched being, whose patch'd weeds
Shield not her shrivell'd body from the blast,
Who oft along the pathway's frozen side,
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Now clwos'd for ay thy cwoal--black een,
That lang, lang gaz'd on me!--Oh! Wully!
An leyfeless lies that manly form,
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The wild Rose is a bonnie flow'r,
When wat wi' mornin' dew;
It ca's to mind the fair I prize,
But, ah! she prov'd untrue!
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The muin shone breet at nine last neet,
When Jemmy Sharp com owre the muir:
Weel did I ken a lover's fit,
And heard him softly tap the duir;
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Aye, Aye, I's feeble grown,
And feckless--weel I may!
I's threescwore and nineteen,
Aye, just this varra day!
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I's tir'd wi' liggin aye my leane;
This day seems fair and clear;
Seek th'auld grey yad, clap on the pad,
She's duin nae wark te year:
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Knight of the Brush, if thou wilt paint
Lords, lions, bears, and bishops still the same,
That strangers may know what is meant,
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Exil'd frae thee, and ilka mead,
Where first I tun'd the rustic reed,
Still fancy's aid I dare to crave;
Still bend to love a willing slave.
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Hail! thou soft soother of my woes,
Friend to delight, and calm repose!
With thee, my happiest hours are spent,
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