The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell ... Now first collected and edited, with memoir, by Robert Howie Smith |
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 | The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell |  |
21
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[Come rest ye here, Johnnie—what news frae the south?]
SHE.
Come rest ye here, Johnnie—what news frae the south?
Here's whey in a luggie to slocken yer drouth;
Our sogers are landed—my hopes are maist dieing;
I'm fear'd, John, to spier if my Jamie's in being.
Here's whey in a luggie to slocken yer drouth;
Our sogers are landed—my hopes are maist dieing;
I'm fear'd, John, to spier if my Jamie's in being.
HE.
Aye, troth, lass, they're landed, and norward they're comin',
In braw order marching, wi' fifing and drummin';
I felt my gray plaid, my cauld winter's warm happin',
To cheer their leal hearts wi' a gill and a chappin'.
In braw order marching, wi' fifing and drummin';
I felt my gray plaid, my cauld winter's warm happin',
To cheer their leal hearts wi' a gill and a chappin'.
Yer father's gude-brither, the sergeant, wi' glee
Pu'd a crown frae his pouch, and loud laughin', quo' he,
“Ye're ow'r auld to list, or ye'd rug this fast frae me.
Mair drink here!”
Pu'd a crown frae his pouch, and loud laughin', quo' he,
“Ye're ow'r auld to list, or ye'd rug this fast frae me.
Mair drink here!”
SHE.
But, John, O, nae news o' poor Jamie?
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The deil's i' the lassie, there's nought in her noddle,
But Jamie—aye Jamie; she cares na ae boddle
For gray-headed heroes—Weel, what should I say now?
The chiel's safe and weel, and what mair wad ye hae now?
But Jamie—aye Jamie; she cares na ae boddle
For gray-headed heroes—Weel, what should I say now?
The chiel's safe and weel, and what mair wad ye hae now?
SHE.
He's weel! gude be prais'd, my dear laddie is weel!
Sic news! hech man, John, ye're a sonsie auld chiel!
I'm doited or daiz'd; it's fu' time I were rinnin',
The wark might be done or I think o' beginnin'.
Sic news! hech man, John, ye're a sonsie auld chiel!
I'm doited or daiz'd; it's fu' time I were rinnin',
The wark might be done or I think o' beginnin'.
I'll rin like a mawkin, and busk in my braws,
And link ow'r the hills whar the caller wind blaws,
And meet the dear lad wha was true to me ever,
And, dorty nae mair, O! I'll part wi' him never.
And link ow'r the hills whar the caller wind blaws,
And meet the dear lad wha was true to me ever,
And, dorty nae mair, O! I'll part wi' him never.
| The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell | |