 | Annie Weir and Other Poems |  |
89
THE CROWS' CHORUS.
Caw! caw! the frost's awa';
The river is full of the melted snaw;
The burn foams in flood through the blithseome shaw,
And pickings are plenty—caw-caw, caw-caw!
The river is full of the melted snaw;
The burn foams in flood through the blithseome shaw,
And pickings are plenty—caw-caw, caw-caw!
Nae mair we're weak-winged wi' our scanty fare;
The clown wi' his gun to get near us we'll dare;
We'll scent his vile powder a field-breadth awa',
And soar oot o' danger—caw-caw, caw-caw!
The clown wi' his gun to get near us we'll dare;
We'll scent his vile powder a field-breadth awa',
And soar oot o' danger—caw-caw, caw-caw!
Caw! caw! the soft winds blaw,
And melt in the valleys the drifted snaw;
The boulders appear on the heathery law,
And pickings are plenty—caw-caw, caw-caw!
And melt in the valleys the drifted snaw;
The boulders appear on the heathery law,
And pickings are plenty—caw-caw, caw-caw!
90
And who are yon strangers that feasting roam
At the water's edge on the flood-filled holm,
Wi' their green-tinted feathers and crests so braw?
The spring-bringing peesweeps—caw-caw, caw-caw!
At the water's edge on the flood-filled holm,
Wi' their green-tinted feathers and crests so braw?
The spring-bringing peesweeps—caw-caw, caw-caw!
Caw! caw! let's cheerily caw;
The children are shouting, “Your nest's awa'!”
The horse through the stubble the plough can draw,
And pickings are plenty—caw-caw, caw-caw!
The children are shouting, “Your nest's awa'!”
The horse through the stubble the plough can draw,
And pickings are plenty—caw-caw, caw-caw!
The sheep on the meadows beheld with delight
The hastening awa' o' the blinding white;
Nae mair they stand scraping wi' weary paw,
But nibble 'mang plenty—caw-caw, caw-caw!
The hastening awa' o' the blinding white;
Nae mair they stand scraping wi' weary paw,
But nibble 'mang plenty—caw-caw, caw-caw!
Caw! caw! in concert caw;
The starling shall join us—the laverock, the daw;
And the snipes in the marshes their whistles shall blaw,
For pickings are plenty—caw-caw, caw-caw!
The starling shall join us—the laverock, the daw;
And the snipes in the marshes their whistles shall blaw,
For pickings are plenty—caw-caw, caw-caw!
91
And see the white buds on yon lown willow twig;
Our mates are to woo and their nests are to big;
But that's a sweet toil that fa's lightly on twa,
When pickings are plenty—caw-caw, caw-caw!
Our mates are to woo and their nests are to big;
But that's a sweet toil that fa's lightly on twa,
When pickings are plenty—caw-caw, caw-caw!
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