The Mirk.
When snaw lay deep upon the brae,1
Or drifted owre the lanesome moor,2
A waste around the cottage door3
Where ance the bloom o’ heather lay,4
The bairnies, tired o’ laugh an’ play,5
Would singin’ gang to sleep at night ;6
While in the pane I’d place a light7
To guide the wanderer aright,8
That in the mirk might lose his way.9
Now thirty years ha’e fled this day,10
Since last I heard the bairnies’ sang,11
Yet every bush where birds are thrang12
Brings back again the simple lay,13
That never mair will cheer the brae ;14
For on my hame there fell a blight—15
My bonnie singers a’ took flight :16
O shine on me, Thou Beacon-light, 17
Lest in the mirk I lose my way !18