Chorus
And maun I still on Menie doat,
And bear the scorn that's in her e'e?
For it's jet, jet black, an it's like a hawk,
An it winna let a body be
Again rejoicing Nature sees
Her robe assume its vernal hues:
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
All freshly steep'd in morning dews.
In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
In vain to me the vi'lets spring;
In vain to me in glen or shaw,
The mavis and the lint-white sing.
The merry ploughboy cheers his team,
Wi joy the tentie seedsman stalks;
But life's to me a weary dream,
A dream of ane that never wauks.
The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,
The stately swan majestic swims,
And ev'ry thing is blest but I.
The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,
And o'er the moorlands whistles shrill:
Wi wild, unequal, wand'ring step,
I meet him on the dewy hill.
And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.
Come winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging, bend the naked tree;
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
When nature all is sad like me!
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