The Scotch Factory-Girl.

THE SCOTCH FACTORY-GIRL.

O LASSIE, sweet lassie! I mourn for thy lot;
The rose from thy cheek is fast fading away;
How gladly I ‘d send thee to thy dear native cot,
Once more with thy mates ‘mong the heather to play.

The daisies and blue-bells still bloom as before,
The rivulet runs on its way to the sea,
The rose and the jessamine bloom by the door,
And the mavis as erst sings his song from the tree.

Oh! poor the exchange of the new-fashioned dress
For the simple straw hat and coarse flannel gown,
Thy home in the fields with Nature to bless,
For a life in the mill and the close crowded town.

O Scotia, beware how thou drivest away
Hearts wedded in love to the dear native soil,
In far distant lands as a refuge to stray,
And with down-fallen hearts among strangers to toil.

For these things I mourn, fair lassie, thy lot,
And picture thee oft in thy childhood’s dear home,
Again seated ‘neath the old rustic cot,
Nor wishing away from its comforts to roam.

But God still is good; let us keep this in view,
And look unto Him, and to Nature so kind.
The fields here are green, the skies richly blue,
Whose blessings, dear lassie; I hope thou wilt find.

One hand here at least in friendship I give,
For every true heart from the land of dear Burns,
With a welcome and wish in plenty to live,
And the blessings of God with the year’s swift returns.