Robert Burns, 1793
O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide|
That day I was my Willie's bride,
And years sin syne hae o'er us run
Like Logan to the simmer sun.
But now thy flowery banks appear
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear,
While my dear lad maun face his faes
Farm far frae me and Logan braes.
2. Again the merry month of May
3. Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush,|
Amang her nestlings sits the thrush:
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil,
Or wi' his song her cares beguile.
But I wi' my sweet nurslings here,
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer,
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.
4. O, wae upon you, Men o' State,
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