Oh, softly sighs the westlin' breeze
Through floweries pearl'd wi' dew;
An' brightly lemes the gowden sky,
That skirts the mountain blue.
An' sweet the birken trees amang,
Swells many a blithesome lay;
An' loud the bratlin burnie's voice
Comes soundin' up the brae.
But, ah! nae mair the sweets o' spring
Can glad my wearied e'e;
Nae mair the summer's op'ning bloom
Gies ought o' joy to me.
Dark, dark to me the pearly flowers,
An' sad the mavis sang,
An' little heart hae I to roam
These leafy groves amang.
She 's gane! she 's gane! the loveliest maid!
An' wae o'erpress'd I pine;
The grass waves o'er my Myra's grave!
Ah! ance I ca'd her mine.
What ither choice does fate afford,
Than just to mourn and dee,
Sin' gane the star that cheer'd my sky,
The beam that bless'd my e'e?
At gloamin' hour alang the burn,
Alane she lo'ed to stray,
To pu' the rose o' crimson bloom,
An' haw-flower purple gray.
Their siller leaves the willows waved
As pass'd that maiden by;
An' sweeter burst the burdies' sang
Frae poplar straight an' high.
Fu' aften have I watch'd at e'en
These birken trees amang,
To bless the bonnie face that turn'd
To where the mavis sang;
An' aft I 've cross'd that grassy path,
To catch my Myra's e'e;
Oh, soon this winding dell became
A blissful haunt to me.
Nae mair a wasting form within,
A wretched heart I bore;
Nae mair unkent, unloved, and lone,
The warl' I wander'd o'er.
Not then like now my life was wae,
Not then this heart repined,
Nor aught of coming ill I thought,
Nor sigh'd to look behind.
Cheer'd by gay hope's enliv'ning ray,
An' warm'd wi' minstrel fire,
Th' expected meed that maiden's smile,
I strung my rustic lyre.
That lyre a pitying Muse had given
To me, for, wrought wi' toil,
She bade, wi' its simple tones,
The weary hours beguile.
Lang had it been my secret pride,
Though nane its strains might hear;
For ne'er till then trembled its chords
To woo a list'ning ear.
The forest echoes to its voice
Fu' sad, had aft complain'd,
Whan, mingling wi' its wayward strain,
Murmur'd the midnight wind.
Harsh were its tones, yet Myra praised
The wild and artless strain;
In pride I strung my lyre anew,
An' waked its chords again.
The sound was sad, the sparkling tear
Arose in Myra's e'e,
An' mair I lo'ed that artless drap,
Than a' the warl' could gie.
To wean the heart frae warldly grief,
Frae warldly moil an' care,
Could maiden smile a lovelier smile,
Or drap a tend'rer tear?
But now she 's gane,--dark, dark an' drear,
Her lang, lang sleep maun be;
But, ah! mair drear the years o' life
That still remain to me!
Whan o'er the raging ocean wave
The gloom o' night is spread,
If lemes the twinkling beacon-light,
The sailor's heart is glad;
In hope he steers, but, 'mid the storm,
If sinks the waning ray,
Dees a' that hope, an' fails his saul,
O'erpress'd wi' loads o' wae.