Poem by David Macbeth Moir

The Rustic Lad's Lament in the Town

O, wad that my time were owre but,
  Wi' this wintry sleet and snaw,
That I might see our house again,
  I' the bonnie birken shaw!
For this is no my ain life,
  And I peak and pine away
Wi' the thochts o' hame and the young flowers,
  In the glad green month of May.

I used to wauk in the morning
  Wi' the loud sang o' the lark,
And the whistling o' the ploughman lads,
  As they gaed to their wark;
I used to wear the bit young lambs
  Frae the tod and the roaring stream;
But the warld is changed, and a' thing now
  To me seems like a dream.

There are busy crowds around me,
  On ilka lang dull street;
Yet, though sae mony surround me,
  I ken na are I meet:
And I think o' kind kent faces,
  And o' blithe an' cheery days,
When I wandered out wi' our ain folk,
  Out owre the simmer braes.

Waes me, for my heart is breaking!
  I think o' my brither sma',
And on my sister greeting,
  When I cam frae hame awa.
And O, how my mither sobbit,
  As she shook me by the hand,
When I left the door o' our auld house,
  To come to this stranger land.

There's nae hame like our ain hame--
  O, I wush that I were there!
There's nae hame like our ain hame
  To be met wi' onywhere;
And O that I were back again,
  To our farm and fields sae green;
And heard the tongues o' my ain folk,
  And were what I hae been!

1. Lines Written in the Isle of Bute
2. The Thorn of Preston
3. The Old Seaport
4. The Tower of Ercildoune
5. To a Dying Infant

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