Sprigs o’ Heather: III. My Ain, Ain Lass

I’m fain for toys o’ Fortune whyles;
I hae no hate for ranks and styles;
But lairdship o’ the braw blue isles
I’d e’en let pass
For are o’ her fine tremblin’ smiles—
My ain, ain lass!

I aiblins dream on days to be,
An’ feel my heart leap out a wee;
But friendly Fate can grant nae fee
Could e’er surpass
Her e’en, sae dark wi’ luve to me—
My ain, ain lass!

Whyles, gray and ghaistly, by me stand
Auld memories in an eerie band;
But swift as prints on slidin’ sand
Sic phantoms pass,
If sae I baud her warm, warm hand,
My ain, ain lass!

The past she sweetens through and through,
An’, far as heaven, the future too;
For, surely, as her dear soul’s due,
They’ll let me pass!
Wi’out me there what wad she do,
My ain, ain lass?