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8 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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Young man, 'tis hard to strive wi' sin,
And the hardest strife of a', Is where the greed o' gain creeps in,
And drives God's grace awa'.
Oh, it's quick to do, but it's lang to rue, When the punishment comes at last,
And we would give the world to undo The deed that's done and past.
Over yon strip of meadow land,
And over the burnie bright, Dinna ye mark the fir-trees stand,
Around yon gable white ?
I mind it weel, in my younger days
The story yet was rife : There dwelt within that lonely place
A farmer and his wife.
They sat together, all alone,
One blessed Autumn night, When the trees without, and hedge, and stone,
Were white in the sweet moonlight.
The boys and girls were gone down all A wee to the blacksmith's wake;
There pass'd ane on by the window small, And guv the door a shake.
The man he up and open'd the door —
When he had spoken a bit, A pedlar man stepp'd into the floor, Down he tumbled the pack he bore,
Right heavy pack was it. |
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