“It might have been,” are the words I hear
In the curlew’s cry from the lonely mere;
In the whisper of leaves when woods are sere.
“It might have been,” says the sea’s long moan,
As if a breaking heart of its own
Wailed out in that strange low undertone.
“It might have been.” Ah, the hungry cry
As the leaden years crawl slowly by!
It will ring through my life till I die, I die.
WAE’S ME
Aroun’ my bit bieldie the cauld win’ is soughing,
The dull rain is patt’ring amang the deid leaves,
The mist-wreaths are swirling about the grey mountains,
The wee drookit birds huddle close ’neath the eaves.
Alang the bleak shore the lane sea gangs a sobbin’
Like some wander’d bairnie that fain wad win hame,
Aye seekin’ an’ seekin’, an’ never yet findin’,—
Sure man, in his pilgrimage here, is the same.
The sky has nae promise, the earth hauds nae pleesure.
I look north an’ south, an’ I look east an’ west,
An’ I envy the folk i’ the kirk-yaird out yonder,
For there, ’mang the mools, there is rest—there is rest!
THE REASON WHY
I ken the lassie’s winsome,
An’ blithe as she is braw;
But ’tis not worth nor beauty aye
That steal the heart awa’.
Her cheek is like the wild-rose,
Her lips are like the haw;
But neither ane nor t’ither ’twas
That stole my heart awa’.