Poetry Archives

Softly now the burn is rushing,
Every lark its song is hushing,
On the moor thick rest is falling,
Just one heather-blade is calling—
Calling, calling, lonely, lonely,
For my darling, for my only,
  Leanbhain O, Leanbhain O!

Trotting home, my dearie, dearie,
Wee black lamb comes, wearie, wearie,
Here its soft feet pit-a-patting
Quickly o’er the flowery matting,
See its brown-black eyes a-blinking—
Of its bed it’s surely thinking,
  Leanbhain O, Leanbhain O!

The hens to roost wee Nora’s shooing,
Brindley in the byre is mooing,
The tired-out cricket’s quit its calling,
Velvet sleep on all is falling,—
Lark and cow, and sheep and starling,—
Feel it kiss our white-haired darling,
  Leanbhain O, Leanbhain O!