O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide,
The day I was my Willie’s bride;
And years sinsyne hae o’er us run,
Like Logan to the simmer sun.
But now thy flow’ry 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 o’ May
Has made our hills and vallies gay;
The birds rejoice in leafy bow’rs,
The bees hum round the breathing flow’rs:
Blythe morning lifts his rosy eye,
And ev’ning’s tears are tears o’ joy:
My soul, delightless, a’ surveys,
While Willie’s 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 widow’d nights, and joyless days,
While Willie’s far frae Logan braes.
O wae upon you, men o’ state,
That brethren rouse in deadly hate!
As ye make mony a fond heart mourn,
Sae may it on your heads return!
Ye mind na, mid your cruel joys,
The widow’s tears, the orphan’s cries!
But soon may peace bring happy days,
And Willie hame to Logan braes!