Petition to the Deil :: :: University of Virginia Library

I mind it weel when I was young,
An' ran aboot the braes,
A sang that Rouchle Willie sung
Cam' ringin' owre the lays.
The sang set oot wi' meikle force,
An' sank in mournfu' strain—
Cheer up your hert, ye auld horse,
Ye'll never harrow here again!

Ae barefit laddie wat his lip
An' ettled at the tune;
It held his fancy in its grip
Throu' a' an efternune.
It cherm'd the prickles aff the gorse,
The cauldness aff the rain—
Cheer up your hert, ye auld horse,
Ye'll never harrow here again!

O Rouchle-Slap an' London-toun,
Ye're far apart, I ween;
Yet aye I hear that Ochil soun'
For a' the miles atween!
It haunts my head at Charing Corse,
Gangs soughin' throu' my brain—
Cheer up your hert, ye auld horse,
Ye'll never harrow here again!

I hear the burns, I hear the birds,
I shut my een an' see
The beardit mouth from which the words
Cam' ringin' wildly free.
I see him stoopin' doon the furs,
Or stridin' owre the plain—
Cheer up your hert, ye auld horse,
Ye'll never harrow here again!

Had Willie to thir times been spared,
Wi' a' his strength o' limb,
Whaur wuns the foe that would hae dared
A regiment o' him?
He would hae chairged the German force
An' roar'd his auld refrain—
Cheer up your hert, ye auld horse,
Ye'll never harrow here again!

O Rouchle Willie, dead an' gane!
Ye lived an' said your say;
Ye've left a cry that's heard abune
The clamours o' the day.
An' noo, for better or for worse,
There's nane o' us can ken—
At least ye're dune wi' drivin' horse,
Ye'll never harrow here again!