Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver :: :: University of Virginia Library

NOTE TO A FRIEND, WITH THE ACCOMPANYING VERSES. The muse made a short and surly “drop in” yesterday morning,—quite unsexed as to apparel—great-coat buttoned over Taglioni, superinvolved by a Kilmarnock cravat. Several apologies for absence of late, bad cold, &c., &c. Asked, with rueful solemnity, whether I had heard anything of May. Hinted at certain scandals current in the “twelve signs,” bearing unfavourably on the repute of our darling month. In short, that she had made off and away with that bloodless old fool, January. Poor thing; how she wailed—her May, her May! Well, I picked up so many tears from a fold of the Kilmarnock, strung them on so many sighs, and here they are to the tune of “The year that's awa'.”

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Air—“The year that's awa.”

Oh, whar hae ye gane, bonnie May,
Hae ye left us for ever an' aye?
Your daft brither, June, brak in wi' a stoun',

Maist frichtit our birdies away,
Oh, May!
An' faint a bit liltie hae they.

Our gowans droop wither'd an' grey,
Our bairnies creep sullen an' blae;
Through blifferts o' caul' they yaumer an' yaul,
An' want ye to warm them, May,
Oh, May!
Our dear, duddie bairnies, May.

The whir o' the witherin' wind
Drives madly o'er burn an' brae;
The tremblin' breird fa's sadden an' sear'd,
An' kens nae the nicht frae the day,
Oh, May!
An' hae ye forsaken us, May?

Our crafters look crabbit an' fey,
Our wee bits o' bushes decay;
They crouch in the yard, cauld blabs on ilk beard,
An' greet to the mornin' grey,
Oh, May!
They miss the lythe licht o' their May.

I've nae mair to sing or to say,
But come, gin you're comin', sweet May,

Ere Martinmas drear set the Factor asteer,
An' then there's the deevil to pay,
Oh, May!
Our stools an' our tubbies away!