Softly Now the Burn Is Rushing

Softly now the burn is rushing,
Every lark its song is hushing,
On the moor thick rest is falling,
Just one heather-blade is calling—
Calling, calling, lonely, lonely,
For my darling, for my only.

Trotting home, my dearie, dearie,
Wee black lamb comes, wearie, wearie,
Here its soft feet pit-a-patting
Quickly o’er the flowery matting,
See its brown-black eyes a-blinking—
Of its bed it’s surely thinking.

The hens to roost wee Nora’s shooing,
Brindley in the byre is mooing,
The tired-out cricket’s quit its calling,
Velvet sleep on all is falling,—
Lark and cow, and sheep and starling,—
Feel it kiss our white-haired darling.