Thae bonny sangs ye sing, Willie,
Wi' sic a touching art,
Round a' our feelings seem to cling,
An' thrill the very heart.
A mither's love ye've seen, Willie;
A faither's joy ye've felt;
Or else thae simple strains, I ween,
Our feelings wadna melt.
The sweet and gladsome lay that's sung,
Wi' sic a fervent power,
Is like the hinny blab that's wrung
Frae out the modest flower.
There's magic in that simple lay -
Sic music in its strain,
That thoughts, receding, bring the ray
O' bairn-time back again.
We feel the freshness o' the spring,
In Willie Winkie's glee:
Or whan we hear a mither sing
Your "Gree, bairns, gree."
The bees that 'mang the blossoms flit
Wi' laden limbs, may rove;
The mellow fruit is only fit
To tempt the hornet's love.
Then paint me nature's burstin' bud -
Man in his artless time,
Ere vice's taint has flush'd his blood,
Or stained his form wi' crime.
And raise frae virtue's simple style,
A halo round thy name
That ithers tyne, wha fight and toil
To gain a brighter fame.