A SANG O' THE SPRING.

COME awa', my fair love,

An' snuff the cauler air;

The sang o' th' turtle dove

Crunes saftly that nae mair

Do cauld an' wat invite

Us till the ingle-side;

Nor winter's plaid o' white

Spread out its faulds sae wide.

The primrose pavit th' mead,

The gowans teet on th' lea;

The burnie's arms are freed,

He loupit wi' liquid glee.

Sweet sangs hang on saft lips,

And float the land aboon;

The bee frae orchards sips

The life he 'll drap sae soon.

An' now the thorn pats on

Her robe o' white an' green,

An' glint the rigs o' corn

Tender as maidens' een.

Then come, my ain fair love,

An' snuff the cauler air;

Fair is the lift above,

But shaw thy face mae fair.

Come list the winter greet

To scent the grape's good smell,

An' daunce wi' flyin' feet

Roun's grave in yonder dell.

Laugh at the wind's sair mane,

As Spring gies her sweet smile,

An' drives him till his hame,

In his far ocean isle.

Come, let me hear thy sang,

Here where the gowans keek;

Be it sweet as 't is lang,

As the rose on thy cheek.