The Prisoner's Song

Were I a little simmer bird,
Awa', on twitterin' wing,
I far wad flee, 'mang wild-woods green,
An' blithely I would sing;
An' I wad sit by ilka flower,
An' taste ilk drap o' dew—
A' wad be mine where light hath shone,—
Green glens and waters blue.

O! I wad flit o'er heather'd hills,
An' sit by mountain streams—
O! I wad be where nightly yet
I wander in my dreams—
Pu'ing the bonnie mountain-flowers,
An' listening to the sang
O' mountain-birds,—the mossy rocks
An' hoary crags amang.

The birds may sit where'er they list,
Where'er they list may flee;
They are na barr'd, as I am now,
Wi’ wa's baith thick and hie.
My heart is dead wi' weariness,—
Here breezes never blaw;
An' tears, like those within my een,
Are a' the dews that fa'.

The simmer e'enin's settin' sun
Into my dungeon throws
Ae single ray,—a holy flower
That, 'mid the darkness, grows:
A joyfu' tale it tells to me
O' freedom's happiness;
And, though the joy I cannot taste,
I love it not the less.

It tells me o' a gowany glen
Afar, where it hath been—
A deep, wild dell, amang the hills,
A' spread wi' breckans green:—
O' singin' birds an' simmer suns,
An' winds, fu' gently swellin';—
O' bonnie burns—fair Freedom's type—
To me that ray is tellin'.

It whispers what the free enjoy
On mountain and in glen,—
Things holy, fresh, and beautiful,
That I maun never ken.—
O! stay a while, thou simmer ray,
Nor leave me thus alane;—
O! dim, an' dimmer, now it grows;
An' now—the light is gane!

Robert Nicoll