WEARING AWA'.

Te Aroha News, Volume I, Issue 43, 29 March 1884, Page 5

WEARING AW A'.

The following lyric, depicting Burns's affection for Jessie Lewars in his last illness, has recently been found in Kilmarnock. It is anonymous, but is believed by competent critics to have been writted by Motherwill, who cherished an almost idolatrous admiration for the great Scottish bard :— The sun lies clasped in amber clouds, Half -hidden in the sea ; And o'er the sands the flowing tide Comes raciDg merrily. The hawthorn hedge is white with bloom, The wind is soft and lown, And sad and still you watch by me, Your hand clasped in my own. Oh ! let the curtain bide, Jessie, And raise my head awee, And let the bonnie setting sun Glint in on you and me. The world looks fair and bright, Jessie, Near loving hearts like you ; But puirtetbrs blast sifts summer love, And makes leal friendships few. Oh ! Jessie, in the dreary night, I clasp my burning hands Upon those throbbing, sleepless lids Oe'r eyes like glowing brands. And wonder, in my weary brain, If, haply, when I'm dead, My old boon friends for love of me Will give my bairnies bread. Oh ! Did the poor not help the poor, Each in their simple way. With humble gift, and kindly word. God pity them, I say ; For many a man who clasped my hand, With pledges o'er the bowl, When the wine halo passed away, Proved but a niggard soul. Oh ! blessed thought midst our despair. There is a promise made That in the day the rough wind blows, The east wind shall be stayed. A few short years, and those I love Will come again to me, In that bright realm without a sun, That land without a sea. Oh ! wilt thou gang o1o 1 nichts, Jessie, To my foresaken hearth. And be as thou hast been to me, The truest friend on earth ? Sac sweetly in your linnet voice, You'll sing my weans to rest, While Jean will lay her weary head Upon your loving breast. Oh ! what is fame ? Its wreath of bays Cools not the fevered brow, 'Twill tell his name in coming days, Who whistled at the plough, And wrote a song or two. For happier hearts to sing. Among the shining sheaves of corn, Or round the household eing. Yet would I prize the bubble fame, If but mine artless lays Bore thy sweet deed and lovingness For future time to praise. True soul ! I bless the poet's skill, Which won a friend like thee, Whose tender love 'twixt Home and Heaven Is with me constantly.