Margaret Winefride Simpson

MEY SANG (Johann Wolfgang von Goethe: 1749-1832)

What glorious Natur
To my sicht!
The hauchs what blythe!
The sun what bricht!
Bloom brakin furth
Frae ilk green bough,
A thoosan' sangs
Frae ilk green howe,
Frae ilka breest
Delyte an mirth:
O Joy, O Bliss!
O Sun, O Yirth!
O Joy, O Luve,
Sae gowden-fair,
Like cloods yon hills
At dawin wiers!
To green fields glory
Thoo dis fess,
Wi flouer-incense
The warl' dis bless.
O lass, dear lass,
Hoo I loe thee!
Hoo thy ee shines!
Hoo thoo loes me!
Sae air an sang
The laverocks loes,
An flouers at morn
Heeven's fragrant dew,
As fond an fain
Aye I loe thee
That gledness, youth,
An hert dis gie
An sang anew,
An cheer to me.
Joy aye be thine
As thoo loes me!

A STAR IS DOONWARD FA'IN... (Heinrich Heine: 1797-1856)

A STAR is doonward fa'in
Frae heichts whaur it shone fair;
It is Luve's skinklin star
Whilk I see fa'in there!
Fast frae the aiple-tree fa's
Green leaf an blossom gay;
By comes the win's for frolic
An skails them a' in play:
The swan sings on the lochan,
Aye glidin to an fro,
An dips, still saftly singin,
The waters' depths ablo:
Mirk fa's sae quait, an scattered
Baith leaf an blossom are;
The swan's sang fa's to seelence,
To dust the skinklin star!

SANG FOR THE NEW YEAR (Edouard Morike: 1804-1875)

AS stowlins this wey
Micht an angel come by,
Ower the yirth, rosy-fitted,
Fou canny to gang,
Near draws the dawin:
Ye richteous, lat singin
Gled welcome be bringin',
Gled welcome be bringin'!
Hert, jine in the sang!
In Him be't begun
That for muin an for sun
A coorse in the blue vault
O Heeven haes made!
Thoo Faither, thoo Helper!
Frae firsten providin
To hinmaist betidin
In Thy Hauns be the guidin
O ilka thing laid!

MIRK THE SHAIDAES GAITHERS... (Emanuel Geibel: 1815-1884)

MIRK the shaidaes gaithers,
Star bi star growes bricht:
What a sich o langin
Swells the hert o nicht!
Throu the sea o dreams noo
Steers withoot devaul,
Steers, an never wearies,
My saul to thy saul!
A' the gift sae gien thee
Tak for thine alane!
Ah, thoo kens that never
Am I noo my ain!

SANG O THE HERP-PLAYER (Theodor Storm: 1817-1888)

THIS ae day an only
Bides beauty wi me;
Alace, gin the morra
A' blauded maun be!
This ae oor an only
Mine dis thoo remain;
Alace, that daith's sorra
Dree sall I alane!

CONSOLATION (Theodor Storm: 1817-1888)

SAE come, lat come whate'er there mey,
Sae lang as thoo dis live it's Day!
Lat furth the gate the warl' be frem,
Whaur thoo're wi me I am at hame!
I see thy weel-loed face, an sees
Nae shaidaes o the days to be!

NOO A' THE CORN IS HAIRSTED... (Ferdinand von Saar: 1833-1906)

Noo a' the corn is hairsted,
Ilk bare field palely gleams;
A' roon' deep dwalls a stillness
Whaur warm the sunlicht beams.
A' withered noo an seelenced
The sweetness an the sang;
Only the bells saft soondin
Whaur flocks to pasture gangs.
The solemn oor o Simmer
Is this, O saul o men,
That thoo mey, or its passin,
Quait recollection ken!