I'm weary o' this warld, Willie, And sick wi' a' I see,-- I canna live as I hae lived, Or be as I should be. But fauld unto your heart, Willie, The heart that still is thine,-- And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek, Ye said was red lang syne. A stoun[150] gaes through my heid, Willie, A sair stoun through my heart,-- O! hand me up, and let me kiss Thy brow, ere we twa pairt. Anither, and anither yet!-- How fast my life's strings break!-- Farewell! farewell! through yon kirk-yard Step lichtly for my sake! The lav'rock[151] in the lift,[152] Willie, That lilts[153] far ower our heid, Will sing the morn as merrilie Abune the clay-cauld deid; And this green turf we're sittin' on, Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen, Will hap[154] the heart that luvit thee, As warld has seldom seen. But O! remember me, Willie, On land where'er ye be,-- And O! think on the leal, leal heart, That ne'er luvit ane but thee! And O! think on the cauld, cauld mools,[155] That file[156] my yellow hair,-- That kiss the cheek, that kiss the chin, Ye never sail kiss mair. [Footnote 150: A darting pain.] [Footnote 151: Lark.] [Footnote 152: Sky.] [Footnote 153: Sings.] [Footnote 154: Cover.] [Footnote 155: Clods.] [Footnote 156: Soil.] As a specimen of Motherwell's descriptive powers, the exquisite grace of his diction, and the deep-toned melody of his verse, and not only so, but of his high devotional feelings, we give the following: A SABBATH SUMMER NOON. The calmness of this noontide hour, The shadow of this wood, The fragrance of each wilding flower Are marvelously good; O! here crazed spirits breathe the balm, Of nature's solitude! It is a most delicious calm That resteth everywhere,-- The holiness of soul-sung psalm, Of felt, but voiceless prayer! With hearts too full to speak their bliss, God's creatures silent are. They silent are; but not the less In this most tranquil hour, Of deep, unbroken dreaminess, They own that Love and Power, Which like the softest sunshine rests, On every leaf and flower. How silent are the song-filled nests That crowd this drowsy tree,-- How mute is every feathered breast That swelled with melody! And yet bright bead-like eyes declare, This hour is exstacy. Heart forth! as uncaged bird through air, And mingle in the tide Of blessed things, that, lacking care, How full of beauty glide, Around thee, in their angel hues Of joy and sinless pride. Here on this green bank that o'er-views The far retreating glen, Beneath the spreading beech-tree muse, On all within thy ken; For lovelier scene shall never break, On thy dimmed sight again.