Here are daisies,-take your fill; Make your bed, or make your bower; Primroses, the spring may love themSummer knows but little of them; Violets, a barren kind, Withered on the ground must lie; When the pretty flowerets die; The Blind Highland Boy. Now we are tired of boisterous joy, There, take your seat, and let me see And, as I promised, I will tell That strange adventure which befell A Highland boy! why call him so? And yet he neither drooped nor pined, Nor had a melancholy mind; For God took pity on the boy, And was his friend, and gave him joy His mother too, no doubt, above For was she here, or was she there, And proud she was of heart, when clad Went hand in hand with her. A dog, too, had he: not for need, Without a better guide. And then the bagpipes he could blow, And thus from house to house would go, And all were pleased to hear and see; For none made sweeter melody Than did the poor blind boy. |