FOOTNOTES:
[19] Empty.
[20] The middle of the street.
THE TINKLER’S BALOO
Haud yer whisht, my mannie,
Hide yer heid the noo,
There’s a jimp young mune i’ the branches abune
An’ she’s keekin’ at me an’ you.
Near she is to settin’,
Waukin’ she shouldna be,
An’ mebbe she sees i’ the loan by the trees
Owre muckle for you an’ me.
Dinna cry on Daddie,
Daddie’s by the fairm,
There’s a specklie hen that strays i’ the den
An’ he’s fear’d she may come to hairm.
Thieves is bauld an’ mony,
That’s what guid fowk say,
An’ they’d a’ complain gin the limmer was ta’en
An’ cheughit afore it’s day.
Sleep, an’ then, come Sawbath,
A feather o’ gray ye’ll get
Wi’ specklies on it to set i’ yer bonnet
An’ gar ye look brawer yet.
Sae hide yer heid, my mannie,
Haud yer whisht, my doo,
For we’ll hae to shift or the sun’s i’ the lift
An’ I’m singin’ baloo, baloo!
THE BANKS O’ THE ESK
Gin I were whaur the rowans hang
Their berried heids aside the river,
I’d hear the water slip alang,
The rowan-leaves abune me shiver;
And winds frae Angus braes wad sail
To blaw me dreams owre peat an’ gale.
An’ blawn frae youth, thae dreams o’ mine
Wad find me, tho’ the rowans hide me,
Like hoolets gray they’d flit, an’ syne
They’d fauld their wings an’ licht aside me;
And aye the mair content I’d be
The closer that they cam’ to me.
Aside the Esk I’d lay me doon,
Atween the rowans and its windin’,
An’ tho’ the waters rase to droon
A weary carle, I’d no be mindin’;
For I wad sleep, my rovin’ past,
Upon thae banks o’ dreams at last.
THE WISE-LIKE CHAP
Aye, billies, I’m a wise-like chap,
I dinna smoke nor drink,
And gin I gi’e my poke a slap
Ye’ll hear the siller chink.
My feyther has an aicht-pair[21] fairm
Weel set wi’ byre an’ stack;
There’s mony will obey me
An’ tak’ their pattern frae me,
But Annie winna hae me
An’ my he’rt’s near brak’!
My Grannie’s saved a bit hersel’,
She’s three-score year an’ ten,
Wha’ll get the profit nane can tell
(An’ yet I think I ken!)
It’s fules wad cross a rich auld wife,
Sae a’ her fleers[22] I tak’,
An’ tho’ it’s like to pay me,
Richt little guid ’twill dae me,
For Annie winna hae me
An’ my he’rt’s near brak’!
Ye’ll mebbe mind the miller’s loon
That was a fair disgrace;
His auld dune hat was clour’d abune
An’ mill-dust on his face.
The gowk! He gaed awa to fecht
And syne cam’ crippl’t back;
Yestre’en he passed my Grannie
Wi’ his left airm bandig’t cannie—
But his richt ane happit Annie,
An’ my he’rt’s near brak’!