Slowly, slowly the cauld moon creeps

Wi' a licht unloesome to see;

It dwalls on the window whaur my love sleeps,

An 'she winna wauken to me.

Wearie, wearie, the hours, and slow,

Wauken, my lovie, and whisper low.

There's nae ae sang in heaven's licht,

Nor on the green earth doun,

Like soun's which kind love kens at nicht,

When whispers hap the soun';

Hearin', fearin', sichin' so—

Whisper, my bonnie love, whisper low!

They lack nae licht wha weel can speak

In love's ain wordless wile;

Her ee-bree creepin' on my cheek

Betrays her pawkie smile.

Happy, happy, silent so—

Breathin' bonnie love, whisper low!

Was yon a waft o' her wee white han'

Wi' a warnin' "wheest" to me?

Or was it a gleam o' that fause moon fa'in

On my poor misguided ee?

Wearie, wearie, wearie O—

Wauken, my lovie, an' whisper low!= The poor hand-loom weaver, struggling with the day's darg from the cold dawn to the cheerless night, and with but fitful gleams of light and hap-piness in the squalid misery of existence, and half unconsciously it may be, has interpreted the sad-ness and sweetness of love's despair and love's long-ing, with a melody and a rapture of utterance which touch the immortal sympathies of the heart through the magic of poetry, and will live in the emanations of his spirit to the eyes that for generations to come shall light upon these modest violets of song. Much greater and more fortunate men have failed to join the "choir invisible," and the poetry of loftier and stronger minds has perished, while these songs will remain in the immortal life of simple thought and deep feeling.