The golden hours on angel wings Flew o'er me and my dearie For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary.
The golden hours on angel wings Flew o'er me and my dearie For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast,
Chill came the tempest's lour;
(And ne'er Misfortune's eastern blast
Did nip a fairer flower.
Whose arms of love would grasp the human race:
Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace;
Friend of my Life, true patron of my rhymes!
If I have wander'd in those paths
Of life I ought to shun,
As something, loudly, in my breast,
Remonstrates I have done;
In that blest sphere alone we live and move;
There taste that life of life-immortal love.
They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him farther woe,
And still, as signs of life appeared,
They tossed him to and fro.
To make a happy fire-side clime To weans and wife, That's the true pathos and sublime Of human life.
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,
Supplied wi' store o' water;
The heaped happer's ebbing still,
An' still the clap plays clatter.
Ae night they're mad wi' drink an' whoring,
Niest day their life is past enduring.
As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns,
They get the jovial, rantin kirns,
When rural life, of ev'ry station,
Unite in common recreation;
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth.
If we lead a life of pleasure,
'Tis no matter how or where!
Life is not worth having with all it can give-
For something beyond it poor man sure must live.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories