 | Songs and poems(1866) |  |
ST. AGNES FAST; OR THE AMOROUS MAIDEN.
A PASTORAL.
How lang I've fasted and 'tis hardly four;
This day I doubt will ne'er be gitten owre:
And theer's as lang a night, alas! beside;
I lall thought Fasts sec fearful things to bide.
This day I doubt will ne'er be gitten owre:
And theer's as lang a night, alas! beside;
I lall thought Fasts sec fearful things to bide.
Fie, Roger, fie—a sairy lass to wrang,
And let her all this trouble undergang;
What gars thee stay?—indeed it's badly duin:
Come, come thy ways—thou mud as weel come suin;
For come thou mun, aw mothers wise agree
And mothers wise can never seer aw lee.
And let her all this trouble undergang;
What gars thee stay?—indeed it's badly duin:
Come, come thy ways—thou mud as weel come suin;
24
And mothers wise can never seer aw lee.
As I was powen pezz to scawd ae night;
On ane wi' neen it was my luck to light:
This fain I underneath my bouster laid,
And gat as fast as e'er I cou'd to bed:
I dreamt—the pleasant dream I'll ne'er forgit;
And, ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet.
On ane wi' neen it was my luck to light:
This fain I underneath my bouster laid,
And gat as fast as e'er I cou'd to bed:
I dreamt—the pleasant dream I'll ne'er forgit;
And, ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet.
A pippin frae an apple fair I cut,
And clwose atween my thoom and finger put:
Then cry'd, where wons my luive, come tell me true;
And even forret straight away it flew;
It flew as Roger's house it wad hev hit,
And, ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet.
And clwose atween my thoom and finger put:
Then cry'd, where wons my luive, come tell me true;
And even forret straight away it flew;
It flew as Roger's house it wad hev hit,
And, ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet.
I laited last aw Hallow-even lang
For growin' nuts the busses neak'd amang:
Wi' twea at last I met: to aither nut
I gave a neame, and baith i'th' ingle put;
Right bonnily he burnt nor flinch'd a bit:
And, ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet.
For growin' nuts the busses neak'd amang:
Wi' twea at last I met: to aither nut
I gave a neame, and baith i'th' ingle put;
Right bonnily he burnt nor flinch'd a bit:
And, ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet.
Turnips, ae Saturday, I pair'd and yell
A pairing seav'd, my sweetheart's neame to tell:
Slap fell it on the fleer; aw ran to view,
And ca't it like a C, but ca't not true;
For nought, I's seer, but R the scrawl wad fit:
And, ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet.
A pairing seav'd, my sweetheart's neame to tell:
Slap fell it on the fleer; aw ran to view,
And ca't it like a C, but ca't not true;
For nought, I's seer, but R the scrawl wad fit:
And, ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet.
A Fortune-teller leately com about,
And my twea guid King-Gworges I powt out.
Baith, baith, (and was not that a pity?) went,
And yet I cannot ca' them badly spent.
She sign'd a bonny lad and a large kit;
And, ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet.
And my twea guid King-Gworges I powt out.
Baith, baith, (and was not that a pity?) went,
And yet I cannot ca' them badly spent.
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And, ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet.
When t'other night the bride was put to bed,
And we wad try whea's turn was neest to wed:
Oft owre the shou'der flung the stockin' fell,
But not yen hit the mark except mysell.
I on her feace directly meade it bit;
And, ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet.
And we wad try whea's turn was neest to wed:
Oft owre the shou'der flung the stockin' fell,
But not yen hit the mark except mysell.
I on her feace directly meade it bit;
And, ah! this cruel Roger comes not yet.
But what need I fash me any mair,
He'll be obleeg'd, avoid it ne'er sae sair,
To come at last; it's own'd, it seems to be,
And weel I know what's own'd yen cannot flee.
Or sud he never come and thur fulfil;
Sud cruel Roger pruive sae cruel still,
I mun not like a fuil gang fast aw day,
And kest mysell just wittenly away.
He'll be obleeg'd, avoid it ne'er sae sair,
To come at last; it's own'd, it seems to be,
And weel I know what's own'd yen cannot flee.
Or sud he never come and thur fulfil;
Sud cruel Roger pruive sae cruel still,
I mun not like a fuil gang fast aw day,
And kest mysell just wittenly away.
She said, and softly slipping 'cross the floor
With easy fingers op'd the silent door;
Thrice to her head she rais'd the luncheon brown,
Thrice lick'd her lips, and three times laid it down;
Purpos'd at length the very worst to prove:
'Twas easier sure to die of ought than love.
With easy fingers op'd the silent door;
Thrice to her head she rais'd the luncheon brown,
Thrice lick'd her lips, and three times laid it down;
Purpos'd at length the very worst to prove:
'Twas easier sure to die of ought than love.
| Songs and poems(1866) | |