Her e’en, sae dark wi’ luve to me—
My ain, ain lass!
Whyles, gray and ghaistly, by me stand
Auld memories in an eerie band;
But swift as prints on slidin’ sand
Sic phantoms pass,
If sae I baud her warm, warm hand,
My ain, ain lass!
The past she sweetens through and through,
An’, far as heaven, the future too;