Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, F Wi' alter'd voice quoth I, "Sweet lass, Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, That's dearest to thy bosom ! I've served my king and country lang,- Sae wistfully she gazed on me, Our humble cot and hamely fare She gazed-she redden'd like a rose- She sank within my arms, and cried, "Art thou my ain dear Willie ?" By Him who made yon sun and sky, I am the man; and thus may still "The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, And find thee still true-hearted; Though poor in gear, we're rich in love; And mair, we'se ne'er be parted.” |