The Shepherd To His Love

A poem by Violet Jacob

Abune the hill ae muckle star is burnin',
Sae saft an' still, my dear, sae far awa,
There's ne'er a wind, noo day to nicht is turnin',
To lift the brainches o' the whisperin' shaw;
Aye, Jess, there's nane to see,
There's just the sheep an' me,
And ane's fair wastit when there micht be twa!

Alang the knowes there's no a beast that's movin',
They sheep o' mine lie sleepin' i' the dew;
There's jist ae thing that's wearyin' an' rovin',
An' that's mysel', that wearies, wantin' you.
What ails ye, that ye bide
In-by - an' me ootside
To curse an' daunder a' the gloamin' through?

To haud my tongue an' aye hae patience wi' ye
Is waur nor what a lass like you can guess;
For a' yer pranks I canna but forgi'e ye,
I'fegs! there's naucht can gar me lo'e ye less;
Heaven's i' yer een, an' whiles
There's heaven i' yer smiles,
But oh! ye tak' a deal o' courtin', Jess!

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