O mind ye, luve, how aft we left The deavin'[142] dinsome[143] toun, To wander by the green burnside, And hear its waters croon?[144] The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wood, The throssil[145] whusslit sweet. The throssil whusslit in the wood, The burn sang to the trees, And we wi' Nature's heart in tune, Concerted harmonies; And on the knowe[146] abune the burn, For hours thegither sat: In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' very, very gladness grat.[147] Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trinkled down your cheek, Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak! That was a time, a blessed time, When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled,--unsung! I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin[148] I hae been to thee, As closely twined wi' earliest thochts, As ye hae been to me? O! tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine; O! say gin e'er your heart grows[149] 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 runs, The luve o' life's young day. O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sindered young, I've never seen your face, nor heard The music o' your tongue; But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I die, Did I but ken your heart still dreamed, O' bygane days and me! [Footnote 126: Holyrood day.] [Footnote 127: Until.] [Footnote 128: Christmas.] [Footnote 129: Salt.] [Footnote 130: Gleams, or flashes.] [Footnote 131: Each other.] [Footnote 132: One.] [Footnote 133: Low bench.] [Footnote 134: To teach.] [Footnote 135: Hand.] [Footnote 136: Remember.] [Footnote 137: School children.] [Footnote 138: Clasped.] [Footnote 139: Dismissed.] [Footnote 140: Climb.] [Footnote 141: Honied.] [Footnote 142: Deafening.] [Footnote 143: Noisy.] [Footnote 144: Murmur.] [Footnote 145: Thrush or mavis.] [Footnote 146: Knoll.] [Footnote 147: Wept.] [Footnote 148: If.] [Footnote 149: Swells.] Equally beautiful and still more pathetic, is "_My Heid is like to rend, Willie_." Indeed, we know of nothing so affecting as the last stanzas of this exquisite ballad. The poor heart-broken girl gives abundant evidence of her profound penitence: O! dinna mind my words, Willie, I downa seek to blame,-- But O! it's hard to live, Willie, And dree a world's shame! Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek, And hailin' ower your chin; Why weep ye sae for worthlessness, For sorrow and for sin.