JEAN ADAMS (?) THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE AND are ye sure the news is true? And are ye sure he's weel? Is this a time to think of wark? When Colin's at the door? Gie me my cloak! I'll to the quay And see him come ashore. For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck ava; There's little pleasure in the house, Rise up and mak' a clean fireside; Put on the muckle pot; Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown, And Jock his Sunday coat: And mak' their shoon as black as slaes, Their hose as white as snaw; It's a' to please my ain gudeman, For he's been long awa'. 20 25 30 35 40 There's twa fat hens upon the bauk, Mak' haste and thraw their necks about, And mak' the table neat and clean, Gar ilka thing look braw; O gi'e me down my bigonet, My bishop satin gown, For I maun tell the bailie's wife That Colin's come to town. My Sunday shoon they maun gae on, My hose o' pearlin blue; 'Tis a' to please my ain gudeman, For he's baith leal and true. Sae true his words, sae smooth his speech, His breath's like caller air! His very foot has music in't, As he comes up the stair. I'm downright dizzy with the thought, In troth, I'm like to greet. The cauld blasts of the winter wind, That thrilled through my heart, They're a' blawn by; I ha'e him safe, But what puts parting in my head? It may be far awa'; The present moment is our ain, The neist we never saw. Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content, I ha'e nae mair to crave; I'm blest above the lave: And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, In troth, I'm like to greet. 45 50 JANE ELLIOT THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST I'VE heard the lilting at our yowe-milking, 5 At buchts, in the morning, nae blithe lads are scorning, ΙΟ The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae; Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming, 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play, 15 But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. Dool and wae was the order sent our lads to the Border! The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay. We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking, 20 |