DONOCHT-HEAD.[52]
BY THE LATE GEORGE PICKERING, OF NEWCASTLE.
Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-head,
The snaw drives snelly through the dale,
The Gaber-lunzie tirls my sneck,
And shivering tells his waefu' tale:—
"Cauld is the night, O let me in,
And dinna let your minstrel fa'!
And dinna let his winding-sheet
Be naething but a wreath o' snaw.
Full ninety winters hae I seen,
And pip'd where gor-cocks whirring flew,
And mony a day I've danc'd, I ween,
To lilts which from my drone I blew."
My Eppie wak'd, and soon she cried,
"Get up, gudeman, and let him in;
For weel ye ken the winter night
Was short when he began his din."
My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet,
Ev'n though she bans and scaulds a wee;
But when it's tuned to sorrow's tale,
O, haith it's doubly dear to me.
Come in, auld carl, I'll steer my fire,
I'll make it bleeze a bonny flame;
Your blood is thin, ye've tint the gait,
Ye should na stray sae far frae hame.
"Nae hame have I, the minstrel said,
Sad party strife o'erturn'd my ha';
And, weeping at the eve of life,
I wander through a wreath o' snaw."