THE WELLS O' WEARY.
Down in the valley lone,
Far in the wild wood,
Bubble forth springs, each one
Weeping like childhood;
Bright on their rushy banks,
Like joys among sadness,
Little flowers bloom in ranks—
Glimpses of gladness.
Sweet 'tis to wander forth,
Like pilgrims at even;
Lifting our souls from earth
To fix them on Heaven;
Then in our transport deep,
This world forsaking:
Sleeping as angels sleep,
Mortals awaking!
I 'M NAEBODY NOO.
I 'm naebody noo; though in days that are gane,
When I 'd hooses, and lands, and gear o' my ain,
Ther war' mony to flatter, and mony to praise—
And wha but mysel' was sae prood in those days!
Ah! then roun' my table wad visitors thrang,
Wha laugh'd at my joke, and applauded my sang,
Though the tane had nae point, and the tither nae glee;
But, of coorse, they war' grand when comin' frae me!
Whan I 'd plenty to gie, o' my cheer and my crack,
Ther war' plenty to come, and wi' joy to partak';
But whanever the water grew scant at the well,
I was welcome to drink all alane by mysel'!
Whan I 'd nae need o' aid, there were plenty to proffer;
And noo whan I want it, I ne'er get the offer;
I could greet whan I think hoo my siller decreast,
In the feasting o' those who came only to feast.