O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path, They blind my e'en wi' saut, saut tears, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' lang syne. 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel 'Twas then we twa did part, Sweet time, sad time, twa bairns at schule, Twa bairns and but ae heart. 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, To lui ilk ither lear, And tones and looks and smiles were shed, Remembered ever mair. I wonder, Jeanie, often yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loop locked in loop, What our wee heads could think; When baith ben down, ower ae braid page, Wi' ae buik on our knee; Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee. Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, We clecked thegither hame And mind ye o' the Saturdays (The schule then skaill at noon), When we ran off to speel the bracs, My head rins round and round about, As ane by ane the thochts rush back, O' schule time and o' thee. O mornin' life! O mornin' luve! O lichsome days and lang, When hinnied hopes around our hearts Like simmer blossoms, sprang! O mind ye, luve, how aft we left The deavin' dinsome toun, To wander by the green burnside, And hear its water croon ? The simmer leaves hung owre our heads, The throssil whusslit in the wud, And we with Nature's heart in tune, Concerted harmonies; And on the knowe abune the burn, For hours thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' vera gladness grat! Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trinkled doun your cheek, Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak! That was a time, a blessed time, I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts As ye hae been to me? Oh! tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine; Oh! say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' lang syne? I've wandered east, I've wandered west, I've borne a weary lot; But in my, wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart, Still travels on its way; And channels deeper as it rins, The luve o' life's young day. O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sundered young, I've never seen your face, nor heard Did I but ken your heart still dreamed Another Scotch poem of striking beauty of description is "Cumnor Hall,” doubly interesting from the impression which it He says "the first made on Walter Scott. stanza especially had a peculiar charm to my fancy, and I found myself repeating it again and again." To it the world is probably indebted for Kenilworth. Although too long to be inserted in full, it is too fine a specimen of its author's style to be lightly regarded. Walter Scott found it in |