O LOGAN, sweetly didst thou glide,
That day I was my Willies bride,
And years sin syne hae oer us run,
Like Logan to the simmer sun:
But now thy flowery banks appear
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;
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers,
The bees hum round the breathing flowers;
Blythe Morning lifts his rosy eye,
And Evenings tears are tears o joy:
My soul, delightless a surveys,
While Willies 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;
But I wi my sweet nurslings here,
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer,
Pass widowd nights and joyless days,
While Willies far frae Logan braes.
O wae be to you, Men o State,
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 widows tear, the orphans cry?
But soon may peace bring happy days,
And Willie hame to Logan braes!
