The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson ... for the first time fully collected and compared with the original and early editions ... edited ... by the Rev. Alexander B. Grosart ... with portrait, illustrations, &c |
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YOUNG JEANNIE.
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 | The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson |  |
YOUNG JEANNIE.
A SONG.
Young Jeannie, when the owlets flew,
Oft went to meet her lover;
Where bonnie flowers were bathed in dew,
And timorous cowered the plover.
Oft went to meet her lover;
Where bonnie flowers were bathed in dew,
And timorous cowered the plover.
As roun' gaed time, young Jeannie hied
To hear young Johnnie's story;
An' aft her tender heart it sighed
O'er tales o' love an' glory.
To hear young Johnnie's story;
An' aft her tender heart it sighed
O'er tales o' love an' glory.
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But far frae her young Johnnie's gane,
Forsaking his young dearie;
And now she wanders out alane—
Heartbroken, sad, an' eerie.
Ahint yon clouds the wan moon peeps,
A-chasing o' the gloamin';
An' casts dark shadows o'er the steeps
Where beauteous Jeannie's roamin'.
Forsaking his young dearie;
And now she wanders out alane—
Heartbroken, sad, an' eerie.
Ahint yon clouds the wan moon peeps,
A-chasing o' the gloamin';
An' casts dark shadows o'er the steeps
Where beauteous Jeannie's roamin'.
When Master Sprat had squeakit owre his sang,
Wi' cheers an' ruffin' the aul' barn-wa's rang.
An' down he sat, an' up his fiddle took,
And—while he owre his shouther cast a look—
Began “The Weaver's March” wi' a' his micht;
When some cried out—“Man! ye're no playin' richt,
That's near about as like ‘God Save the King,’
I'll tak' my aith, as ony ither thing.”
While ithers took his part, saying—“Stop yer bletherin',
The callan's doing unco weel, considerin';
But, wheesht, ye bitches, there's the Spouter's bell!
An' let us hear what he's now got to tell.”
When, in he cam', an' screwin' up his face
Began an' tell't the weaver's waefu' case;
To be a warning to a' love-born chiels
Never to lea their wark to grunt amang the fiel's:—
Wi' cheers an' ruffin' the aul' barn-wa's rang.
An' down he sat, an' up his fiddle took,
And—while he owre his shouther cast a look—
Began “The Weaver's March” wi' a' his micht;
When some cried out—“Man! ye're no playin' richt,
That's near about as like ‘God Save the King,’
I'll tak' my aith, as ony ither thing.”
While ithers took his part, saying—“Stop yer bletherin',
The callan's doing unco weel, considerin';
But, wheesht, ye bitches, there's the Spouter's bell!
An' let us hear what he's now got to tell.”
When, in he cam', an' screwin' up his face
Began an' tell't the weaver's waefu' case;
To be a warning to a' love-born chiels
Never to lea their wark to grunt amang the fiel's:—
| The poems and literary prose of Alexander Wilson | |