* Harm.
THE RUSTIC LAD'S LAMENT IN THE TOWN.
O, wad that my time were owre but,
Wi' this wintry sleet and snaw, That I might see our house again,
I' the bonnie birken shaw! For this is no my ain life,
And I peak and pine away Wi' the thochts o' hame and the young flowers,
In the glad green month of May.
I used to wauk in the morning
Wi' the loud sang o' the lark, And the whistling o' the ploughman lads,
As they gaed to their wark; I used to wear the bit young lambs
Frae the tod and the roaring stream; But the warld is changed, and a' thing now
To me seems like a dream.
There are busy crowds around me,
On ilka lang dull street; Yet, though sae mony surround me,
I ken na are I meet: And I think o' kind kent faces,
And o' blithe an' cheery days, When I wandered out wi' our ain folk,
Out owre the simmer braes.
Waes me, for my heart is breaking!
I think o' my brither sma', And on my sister greeting,
When I cam frae hame awa. And O, how my mither sobbit,
As she shook me by the hand, When I left the door o' our auld house,
To come to this stranger land.
There's nae hame like our ain hame—
O, I wush that I were there! There's nae hame like our ain hame
To be met wi' onywhere; And O that I were back again,
To our farm and fields sae green; And heard the tongues o' my ain folk,
And were what I hae been!
DAVID MACBETH MOIR.
