Sweet sleep be with us, one and all!
And if upon its stillness fall
The visions of a busy brain,
We 'll have our pleasure o'er again;
To warm the heart, to charm the sight,
Gay dreams to all! Good night, good night!
THOUGH RICHER SWAINS THY LOVE PURSUE.
Though richer swains thy love pursue,
In Sunday gear and bonnets new;
And every fair before thee lay
Their silken gifts, with colours gay—
They love thee not, alas! so well
As one who sighs, and dare not tell;
Who haunts thy dwelling, night and noon,
In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon.
I grieve not for my wayward lot,
My empty folds, my roofless cot;
Nor hateful pity, proudly shown,
Nor altered looks, nor friendship flown;
Nor yet my dog, with lanken sides,
Who by his master still abides;
But how wilt thou prefer my boon,
In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon?
POVERTY PARTS GUDE COMPANIE.[29]
Air—"Todlin' Hame."
When white was my owrelay as foam of the linn,
And siller was chinking my pouches within;
When my lambkins were bleating on meadow and brae,
As I gaed to my love in new cleeding sae gay—
Kind was she, and my friends were free;
But poverty parts gude companie.
How swift pass'd the minutes and hours of delight!
The piper play'd cheerly, the cruisie burn'd bright;
And link'd in my hand was the maiden sae dear,
As she footed the floor in her holiday gear.
Woe is me! and can it then be,
That poverty parts sic companie?