Her Vyce

THE bummler reels frae beuch tae beuch
Wi his foggy clead an his gauzy wing.
Nou in a lily-flouer, his souch
Will whid the hyacinth bell aswing,
A silly thing;
Come ben inower, luve: here, in a feuch
While sweet ye leuch,

A hecht twa lifes soud be like ane
Sae lang's the sea-maw loued the sea,
An the sunflouer didna seek the muin, -
It will be, A said, for eternity
Wi you an me!
Ma jo, thae times is past an duin,
Luve's wab is thin.

Leuk upwith whaur the poplar trees
Swags an sweys in the simmer air,
Here in the glen the'r niver a breeze
Wad waff the thristle-tap, but thare
Gret winds blaws fair
Frae athort the black an gowsty seas,
An the droukit leas.

Leuk upwith whaur the white maw tuims
Its hert for something we canna see.
Is thon a starn? Or the laump that leams
On some furthwart-viagin argosy, -
Och! can it be
We hae wared oor lifes in a laund o dreams!
Murnfu it seems.

The'r nocht tae say forby this thing
The truith that luve is niver lost,
Tho winter stob the breests o spring
That's crimson roses birst his frost
Ships tempest-tossed
Will find a ludge new sails tae hing
We winna loss't.

An nocht remeins tae dae e'en nou
But pree again thae lips an pairt.
The'r nocht ava that we soud rue.
A hae ma beauty, - you yer Airt,
Na, dinna stairt,
Ae lift haedna starns enew
For me an you.

Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)