 | Poems And Songs |  |
40
JOHN RIFLEMAN.
“John Rifleman, my husband, come in owre to the fire,
But first fling aff your sodger's cap and jaupit green attire;
Your pouther-pouch fling on the shelf, your gun ahint the door;
But dinna leave it loaden't, John, as ance ye did before.
But first fling aff your sodger's cap and jaupit green attire;
Your pouther-pouch fling on the shelf, your gun ahint the door;
But dinna leave it loaden't, John, as ance ye did before.
“What's taigled ye the night, John? You're surely late a wee;
I'm sure this strucken hour and mair I've waited for my tea.
I dinna grudge, when guid's the cause, alane at e'en to sit;
But, John, wi' thir untimeous teas, my head's jist like to split.”
I'm sure this strucken hour and mair I've waited for my tea.
I dinna grudge, when guid's the cause, alane at e'en to sit;
But, John, wi' thir untimeous teas, my head's jist like to split.”
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In silence John his claithin' changed, syne to the fire drew near,
And wi' a smile, “Guidwife,” quo' he, “it's pleasant to be here.
May ill befa' thae fickle French wha cause sae muckle toil,
Wi' threatenin' to blaw up oor toons, and sink our bonny isle.”
And wi' a smile, “Guidwife,” quo' he, “it's pleasant to be here.
May ill befa' thae fickle French wha cause sae muckle toil,
Wi' threatenin' to blaw up oor toons, and sink our bonny isle.”
“But sure,” quo' Mrs Rifleman, “they'll swither when they hear
Hoo every wife has made her man a Rifle Volunteer.
Ye maun sen' owre a letter, John, and warn them o' their fa',
And tell them ye can shoot them doon a lang halfmile awa'.”
Hoo every wife has made her man a Rifle Volunteer.
Ye maun sen' owre a letter, John, and warn them o' their fa',
And tell them ye can shoot them doon a lang halfmile awa'.”
“Hae faith, dear Mrs Rifleman, and trust we'll do oor best
To keep the French frae comin' here to break your mornin's rest.
We'll gang and meet them at the Shotts, or on the Mearns Muir,
And 'mang the heather lay their banes, to bleach for ages there.”
To keep the French frae comin' here to break your mornin's rest.
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And 'mang the heather lay their banes, to bleach for ages there.”
But sonsy Marion Rifleman, still dubious, shook her head:
“They'll some o' them lie doon,” quo' she, “pretendin' to be dead;
And while upon the field ye lie, secure 'neath Victory's wing,
Disaster to your ain auld toon the coward loons may bring.”
“They'll some o' them lie doon,” quo' she, “pretendin' to be dead;
And while upon the field ye lie, secure 'neath Victory's wing,
Disaster to your ain auld toon the coward loons may bring.”
“I hae't!” quo' bauld John Rifleman: “I will mysel' propose
That a' oor corps should stay at hame, and wait upon oor foes:
On ‘Cadzow Brig we'll take oor staun’, and if they winna turn,
We'll drap them as they come, or grip and fling them in the burn.”
That a' oor corps should stay at hame, and wait upon oor foes:
On ‘Cadzow Brig we'll take oor staun’, and if they winna turn,
We'll drap them as they come, or grip and fling them in the burn.”
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But still sweet Mrs Rifleman her safety couldna see;
“There still might ane or twa escape your gun and grip,” quo' she.
“I think I hear them on the stair, I see them comin' ben,
And what can ae puir woman do against twa armit men?”
“There still might ane or twa escape your gun and grip,” quo' she.
“I think I hear them on the stair, I see them comin' ben,
And what can ae puir woman do against twa armit men?”
John Rifleman his young mustache wi' thoom and finger fan',
Quo' he, “My bonnie timorous May, I've jist ae ither plan:
I'll stay at hame and take my staun' upon oor ain stair-head,
And aye, whene'er they venture up, I'll shoot the scoon'rels dead.”
Quo' he, “My bonnie timorous May, I've jist ae ither plan:
I'll stay at hame and take my staun' upon oor ain stair-head,
And aye, whene'er they venture up, I'll shoot the scoon'rels dead.”
“I kent my ain John Rifleman wad plan't at last,” she cried;
“And I shall aid wi' a' my skill to guard oor ain fireside.
I'll keep a goblet boilin' aye, the biggest in the toon,
And while your gun your loadenin', John, I'll jaup a jugfu' doon.”
“And I shall aid wi' a' my skill to guard oor ain fireside.
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And while your gun your loadenin', John, I'll jaup a jugfu' doon.”
Sae, loyal wives, tak' Marion's plan—nae wife need o't think shame;
Hae rowth o' water boilin' aye, and keep your men at hame,
And ye shall see, if blows maun be, they'll hit baith fast and hard,
For whare's the man that wadna fecht, his lady-love to guard?
Hae rowth o' water boilin' aye, and keep your men at hame,
And ye shall see, if blows maun be, they'll hit baith fast and hard,
For whare's the man that wadna fecht, his lady-love to guard?
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