Sister Jeanie, haste, we 'll go
To where the blossom'd lilacs grow,
To where the pine-tree, dark an' high,
Is pointing its tap at the cloudless sky.
Jeanie, mony a merry lay
Is sung in the young-leaved woods to-day;
Flits on light wing the dragon-flee,
And hums on the flowerie the big red bee.
Down the burnie wirks its way
Aneath the bending birken spray,
An' wimples roun' the green moss-stane,
An' mourns, I kenna why, wi' a ceaseless mane.
Jeanie, come! thy days o' play
Wi' autumn tide shall pass away;
Sune shall these scenes, in darkness cast,
Be ravaged wild by the wild winter blast.
Though to thee a spring shall rise,
An' scenes as fair salute thine eyes;
An' though, through many a cloudless day,
My winsome Jean shall be heartsome and gay;
He wha grasps thy little hand
Nae langer at thy side shall stand,
Nor o'er the flower-besprinkled brae
Lead thee the lounnest an' the bonniest way.
Dost thou see yon yard sae green,
Speckled wi' mony a mossy stane?
A few short weeks o' pain shall fly,
An' asleep in that bed shall thy puir brother lie.
Then thy mither's tears awhile
May chide thy joy an' damp thy smile;
But soon ilk grief shall wear awa',
And I 'll be forgotten by ane an' by a'.
Dinna think the thought is sad;
Life vex'd me aft, but this maks glad;
When cauld my heart and closed my e'e,
Bonnie shall the dreams o' my slumbers be.