Susanna Blamire Poems

O there is not a sharper dart
Can pierce the mourner's suffering heart,
Than when the friend we love and trust
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Sweet April! month of all the year
That loves to shed the dewy tear,
And with a soft but chilly hand
The silken leaves of flowers expand;
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Low bend thy head thou waving spray,
Soft drop the dew that falls on thee,
That still the early rising day
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My Gartmore friends a blessing on ye,
And all that's good still light upon ye!
Will you allow this hobbling rhyme
To tell you how I pass my time?
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The Rose, I own, has many a charm
To win the partial eye;
Her sweets remain to glad the sense
E'en when her colours fly:
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How oft by the lamp of the pale waning moon
Would Kitty steal out from the eye of the town;
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When silent time, wi' lightly foot,
Had trod on thirty years,
I sought again my native land
Wi' mony hopes and fears:
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Farewell ye walls where solitude has thrown
Her long dark shadow on each silent stone,
Where the slow pulse but feebly dares to creep,
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Oh! stay Affection; pray thee stay!
What have I said--or meant to say?
'Twas love, e'en love the trespass caus'd
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And is it thee! my Willy, lad,
And safe return'd frae war;
Thou'rt dearer to thy mither's heart,
Now thou has been sae far:
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