I waken out o’ dreams when I hear the summer thrushes.
Oh, that’s the Brabla’ burn, I can hear it sing an’ flow,
For all that’s fair I’d sooner see a bunch o’ green rushes.
Run, burn, run! can ye mind when we were young?
The honeysuckle hangs above, the pool is dark an’ brown:
Sing, burn, sing! can ye mind the song ye sung
The day we cut the rushes on the mountain?
Moira O’Neill
TO A LATE COMER
Why didst thou come into my life so late?