Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, A Dramatic Poem The Maid of Galloway; The Legend of Richard Faulder; and Twenty Scottish Songs: By Allan Cunningham |
A WEARY BODIE'S BLYTHE WHAN THE SUN GANGS DOWN. |
Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, A Dramatic Poem | ||
A WEARY BODIE'S BLYTHE WHAN THE SUN GANGS DOWN.
1
A weary bodie's blythe whan the sun gangs down,A weary bodie's blythe whan the sun gangs down:
To smile wi' his wife, and to daute wi' his weans,
Wha wadna be blythe whan the sun gangs down?
2
The simmer sun's lang, an' we've a' toiled sair,Frae sun-rise to sun-set's a dreigh tack o' care;
But at hame for to daute 'mang our wee bits o' weans,
We think on our toils an' our cares nae mair.
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3
The Saturday sun gangs ay sweetest down,My bonnie boys leave their wark i' the town;
My heart loups light at my ain ingle side,
Whan my kin' blythe bairn-time is a' sitting roun'.
4
The sabbath morning comes, an' warm lowes the sun,Ilk heart's full o' joy a' the parishen roun';
Round the hip o' the hill comes the sweet psalm tune,
An' the auld fowk a' to the preaching are bowne.
5
The hearts o' the younkers loup lightsome, to seeThe gladness which dwalls in their auld grannie's ee;
An' they gather i' the sun,' side the green haw-tree,
Nae new-flown birds are sae mirthsome an' hie.
6
Tho' my sonsie dame's cheeks nae to auld age are prief,Tho' the roses which blumed there are smit i' the leaf;
Tho' the young blinks o' luve hae a' died in her ee,
She is bonnier an' dearer than ever to me!
7
I mind when I thought the sun didnae shineOn a form half so fair, or a face so divine;
She was wooed in the parlour, and sought in the ha',
But I won her away frae the wit o' them a'.
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8
Ance Poortith came in 'yont our hallan to keek,But my Jeanie was nursing an' singing sae sweet,
That she laid down her powks at anither door-cheek,
An steppit blythely ben her auld shanks for to beek.
9
My hame is the mailen weel stockit an' fu,My bairns are the flocks an' the herds which I loo;—
My Jeanie is the gold an' delight o' my ee,
She's worth a hale lairdship o' mailens to me!
10
O wha wad fade awa like a flower i' the dew,An' nae leave a sprout for kind heaven to pu'?
Wha wad rot 'mang the mools, like the stump o' the tree,
Wi' nae shoots the pride o' the forest to be?
Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, A Dramatic Poem | ||