O Logie Kirk amang the braes,
I’m thinkin’ o’ the merry days
Afore I trod thae weary ways
That led me far frae Logie!
Fine do I mind when I was young
Abune thy graves the mavis sung
An’ ilka birdie had a tongue
To ca’ me back to Logie.
O Logie Kirk, tho’ aye the same
The burn sings ae remembered name,
There’s ne’er a voice to cry “Come hame
To bonnie Bess at Logie!”
Far, far awa’ the years decline
That took the lassie wha was mine
An’ laid her sleepin’ lang, lang syne
Amang the braes at Logie.
Aweel, I’m couped. But wha’ could
The road wad rin sae sair?
I couldna gang yon pace mysel’,
An’ I winna try nae mair!
There’s them wad coonsel me to stan’,
But this is what I say:
When Natur’s forces fecht wi’ man,
Dod, he maun just give way!
If man’s nae framed to lift his fit
Agin’ a nat’ral law,
I winna’ lift my heid, for it
Wad dae nae guid ava’.
Puir worms are we; the poo’pit rings
Ilk Sawbath wi’ the same,
Gin airth’s the place for sic-like things,
I’m no sae far frae hame!
Yon’s guid plain raes’nin’; an’
This pairish has nae sense,
There’s mony traiv’lin wad deny
Natur and Providence;
For loud an’ bauld the leears wage
On men like me their war,
Elected saints to thole their rage
Is what they’re seekin’ for.
But tho’ a man wha’s drink’s his
Their malice maun despise,
It’s no for naething, div ye see,
That I’m sae sweir to rise!
(A Perthshire legend)
The weary, weary days gang by,
The weary nichts they fa’,
I mauna rest, I canna lie
Since my ain bairn’s awa’.
The soughing o’ the springtide breeze
Abune her heid blaws sweet,
There’s nests amang the kirkyaird trees
And gowans at her feet.
She gae’d awa’ when winds were hie,
When the deein’ year was cauld,
An noo the young year seems to me
A waur ane nor the auld.
And, bedded, ‘twixt the nicht an’ day,
Yest’re’en, I couldna bide
For thinkin’, thinkin’ as I lay
O’ the wean that lies outside.
O, mickle licht to me was gie’n
To reach my bairn’s abode,
But heaven micht blast a mither’s een
And her feet wad find the road.
The kirkyaird loan alang the brae
Was choked wi’ brier and whin,
A’ i’ the dark the stanes were grey
As wraiths when I gae’d in.
The wind cried frae the western airt
Like warlock tongues at strife,
But the hand o’ fear hauds aff the he’rt
That’s lost its care for life.
I sat me lang upon the green,
A stanethraw frae the kirk,
And syne a licht shone dim between
The shaws o’ yew and birk.