Annie Weir and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

JOHN FROST.

SUGGESTED BY THE PRATTLE OF A CHILD.

Oh, mither, John Frost cam' yestreen,
And owre a' the garden he's been;
He's on the kail-stocks,
And my twa printit frocks
That Mary left out on the green,
Yestreen,
John Frost foun' them out on the green.

And he's been on the trees, the auld loon,
And heaps o' brown leaves shooken doun;
He's been fleein' a' nicht,
Frae the dark to the licht,
And missed nae a house in the toun,
The auld loun—
He's missed nae a house in the toun.

And, mither, he's killed every flee—
Noo ane on the wa's ye'll no see;
On the windows there's nane,
For the last leevin' ane
Fell doun frae the rape in oor tea,
Puir thing!—
Just drappit doun dead in oor tea.

And, mither, the path's frostit a';
If ye gang the least fast ye jist fa'.
Oh, ye ne'er saw sic fun!
I got ae curran'-bun,
And wee Annie Kenzie got twa,
Daft wee thing;
She jist slade a wee bit and got twa.

And my auntie her een couldnae close,
For she said her auld bluid he just froze.
He cam' in below the claes,
And he nippit oor taes—
And he maist taen awa' Bobby's nose,
Puir wee man;
Sure, he couldnae dae wantin' his nose.

And my uncle was chitterin' to death,
And John Frost wadna let him get breath;
And the fire wadna heat
Uncle's twa starvin' feet,
Till the soles o' his socks were burned baith,
Birslet brown,
And the reek comin' oot o' them baith.

But what brings John Frost here ava,
Wi' his frost and his cranreugh and snaw?
It's a bonny-like thing!
He just waff't his lang wing,
And a' oor wee flowers flew awa',
Every ane;
And Ross's red dawlies and a'.

And, mither, he gangs through the street,
Just looking for weans wi' bare feet;
And he nips at their heels,
And the skin aff them peels,
And thinks it's fine fun when they greet,
The auld loon;
He nips them the mair when they greet.

Wi' his capers the folk shouldna thole.
D'ye ken?—He breathed in through a bole
Whare a wee lassie lay,
And she dee't the next day,
And they laid her doun in the kirk-hole,
Puir wee lamb—
And covered her in the kirk-hole.

But guess what my auntie tell't me?
She says the wee weans, when they dee,
Flee awa' owre the moon,
And need nae claes nor shoon,
To a place whare John Frost they'll ne'er see,
Far awa'—
To a place whare John Frost daurna be.

And she says our wee Katie gaed there,
And she'll never be hoastin' nae mair.
Sure, we'll gang there ana'—
We'll flee up an' no fa'—
And we'll see her jist in her wee chair—
And she'll lauch
In her bonny wee red-cushioned chair.