 | The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill |  |
32
BAROCHAN JEAN.
'Tis ha'ena ye heard, man, o' Barochan Jean?
And ha'ena ye heard, man, o' Barochan Jean?
How death and starvation came o'er the haill nation,
She wrought sic mischief wi' her twa pawky een.
And ha'ena ye heard, man, o' Barochan Jean?
How death and starvation came o'er the haill nation,
She wrought sic mischief wi' her twa pawky een.
The lads and the lasses were deeing in dizzens,
The tane killed wi' love, and the tither wi' spleen;
The ploughing, the sawing, the shearing, the mawing,—
A' wark was forgotten for Barochan Jean.
The tane killed wi' love, and the tither wi' spleen;
The ploughing, the sawing, the shearing, the mawing,—
A' wark was forgotten for Barochan Jean.
Frae the south and the north, o'er the Tweed and the Forth,
Sic coming and ganging there never was seen;
The comers were cheery, the gangers were blearie,
Despairing, or hoping for Barochan Jean.
Sic coming and ganging there never was seen;
The comers were cheery, the gangers were blearie,
Despairing, or hoping for Barochan Jean.
The carlines at hame were a' girning and graning,
The bairns were a' greeting frae morning till e'en,
They got naething for crowdy but runts boiled to sowdie,
For naething gat growing for Barochan Jean.
The bairns were a' greeting frae morning till e'en,
They got naething for crowdy but runts boiled to sowdie,
For naething gat growing for Barochan Jean.
The doctors declared it was past their descriving,
The ministers said 'twas a judgment for sin,
But they lookit sae blae, and their hearts were sae wae,
I was sure they were deeing for Barochan Jean.
The ministers said 'twas a judgment for sin,
But they lookit sae blae, and their hearts were sae wae,
I was sure they were deeing for Barochan Jean.
The burns on roadsides were a' dry wi' their drinking,
Yet a' wadna sloken the drouth i' their skin;
A' around the peat-stacks, and alangst the dyke-backs,
E'en the winds were a' sighing, “Sweet Barochan Jean!”
Yet a' wadna sloken the drouth i' their skin;
A' around the peat-stacks, and alangst the dyke-backs,
E'en the winds were a' sighing, “Sweet Barochan Jean!”
The timmer ran done wi' the making o' coffins,
Kirkyards o' their sward were a' howkit fu' clean,
Dead lovers were packit like herring in barrels,
Sic thousands were deeing for Barochan Jean.
Kirkyards o' their sward were a' howkit fu' clean,
Dead lovers were packit like herring in barrels,
Sic thousands were deeing for Barochan Jean.
33
But mony braw thanks to the Laird o' Glenbrodie,
The grass owre their graves is now bonnie and green:
He stole the proud heart of our wanton young lady,
And spoiled a' the charms o' her twa pawky een.
The grass owre their graves is now bonnie and green:
He stole the proud heart of our wanton young lady,
And spoiled a' the charms o' her twa pawky een.
| The songs and poems of Robert Tannahill | |