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Poems, on sacred and other subjects

and songs, humorous and sentimental: By the late William Watt. Third edition of the songs only--with additional songs

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HAB O' THE MILL.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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106

HAB O' THE MILL.

[_]

AIR,—“Todlin' but and Todlin' ben.”

'Mang a' the fine feelings to frail mortals lent,
There is nane that's mair sweet than the smile o' content;
It gars the time flee sae delightfully smooth,
That our noddle's turn grey while we think we're in youth.
Yet it shuns courts and crowns for the glen and the hill,
And tak's shelter remote wi' auld Hab o' the Mill.
Auld Hab has wonn'd there for years threescore and ten,
Yet he ne'er was sax miles frae his ain native glen;
And though the same scenes to his e'e still appear,
Yet they never him tire, but are ever as dear:
While the blackbird's blithe sang, and the laverock's gay trill,
Ever cheer up the heart o' auld Hab o' the Mill.
Auld Mirren and he, as guidman and guidwife,
Ha'e a half-cent'ry pass'd free o' dull care and strife;
While a family they've raised, by example and thrift,
That for virtue are equall'd by few 'neath the lift:
Which delights the auld pair wi' true joy's sweetest thrill,
Sae few mortals are bless'd like auld Hab o' the Mill.
His sons they are hardy, true-hearted, and leal,
What they say wi' their tongue wi' their blood they will seal;
His dochters are bonny, and modest, yet free,
And the blithe blink o' love flashes warm frae ilk e'e;
And fou crouse is the wooer wha gets the guidwill
To become son-in-law to auld Hab o' the Mill.
In winter, when snell frost the mill-lade up locks,
And the shochles, like crystal, hing clear frae the rocks;
Wi' some auld couthie friend he the time passes by,
Nor complains o' the drift wheeling chill through the sky.
Wi' a crack and a snuff, and a cog o' guid yill,
Never king was mair happy than Hab o' the Mill.
O fortune, shower titles and wealth on the great,
For me I'll ne'er wish for their splendour nor state;
If thou'lt only me bless wi' contentment through life,
Far frae malice, frae envy, frae discord, and strife;
Then the cup of my lot to the brim thou wilt fill,
And I'll toddle through life like auld Hab o' the Mill.