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| 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 | 5 |
| Like drumlie Winter, dark and drear, | |
| While my dear lad maun face his faes, | |
| Far, far frae me and Logan braes. | |
| |
| Again the merry month of May | |
| Has made our hills and valleys gay; | 10 |
| The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, | |
| The bees hum round the breathing flowers; | |
| Blythe Morning lifts his rosy eye, | |
| And Evening’s tears are tears o’ joy: | |
| My soul, delightless a’ surveys, | 15 |
| While Willie’s far frae Logan braes. | |
| |
| 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; | 20 |
| 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. | |
| |
| O wae be to you, Men o’ State, | 25 |
| That brethren rouse to deadly hate! | |
| As ye make mony a fond heart mourn, | |
| Sae may it on your heads return! | |
| How can your flinty hearts enjoy | |
| The widow’s tear, the orphan’s cry? | 30 |
| But soon may peace bring happy days, | |
| And Willie hame to Logan braes! | |
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