Why is my spirit sad?
Have not the beautiful been ta'en away—
Are not the noble-hearted turn'd to clay—
Wither'd in root and stem?
I see that others, in whose looks are lit
The radiant joys of youth, are round me yet,
But not—but not like them!
I would not be less sad;
My days of mirth are past; droops o'er my brow
The sheaf of care in sickly paleness now;
The present is around me;
Would that the future were both come and gone,
And that I lay where, 'neath a nameless stone,
Crush'd feelings could not wound me!
GEORDIE YOUNG.
I 'll no walk by the kirk, mother,
I 'll no walk by the manse;
I aye meet wi' the minister,
Wha looks at me askance.
What ails ye at the minister?—
A douce and sober lad;
I trow it is na every day
That siclike can be had.
I dinna like his smooth-kaim'd hair,
Nor yet his pawkie face;
I dinna like a preacher, mother,
But in a preaching place.
Then ye 'll gang down by Holylee—
Ye needna look sae scared—
For wha kens but at Holylee
Ye 'll aiblins meet the Laird?
I canna bide the Laird, mother,
He says sic things to me;
Ae half he says wi' wily words,
And ae half wi' his e'e.
Awa! awa! ye glaikit thing!
It 's a' that Geordie Young;
The Laird has no an e'e like him,
Nor the minister a tongue!