As I was a-wand'ring ae morning in spring,
I heard a young ploughman sae sweetly to sing;
And as he was singin', thir words he did say, -
There's nae life like the ploughman's in the month o' sweet May.
I am nae poet, in a sense,
But just a rhymer like by chance,
An' hae to learning nae pretence;
Yet what the matter?
Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my e'e;
Lang lang Joy's been a stranger to me:
Forsaken and friendless, my burden I bear,
And the sweet voice o' Pity ne'er sounds in my ear.
Tune - "Invercauld's Reel, or Strathspey."
Choir. - O Tibbie, I hae seen the day,
Ye wadna been sae shy;
Auld Coila now may fidge fu' fain,
She's gotten poets o' her ain--
Chiels wha their chanters winna hain,
Behind yon hills, where Lugar flows,
'Mang moors an' mosses many, O,
The wintry sun the day has clos'd,
Wishfully I look and languish
In that bonie face o' thine,
And my heart it sounds wi' anguish,
Lest my wee thing be na mine.
Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye blume sae fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu' o' care?
AS I stood by yon roofless tower,
Where the wa'flower scents the dewy air,
Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower,
Fair Empress of the poet's soul,
And Queen of poetesses;
Clarinda, take this little boon,
This humble pair of glasses: