waters, Tha tells us thi sire, stern winter, is ower.

We hail thi approach wi’ palm-spangled banners; The plant an’ the saplin’ await thi command; An’ Natur herseln, to show her good manners, Nah spreads her green mantle all ower the land.

Tha appears in t’ orchard, in t’ garden, an’ t’ grotto, Where sweet vegetation anon will adorn; Tha smiles on the lord no more than the cottar, For thi meanest o’ subjects tha nivver did scorn.

O hasten ta labour! ye wise, O be goin’! These words they are borne on the wings o’ the wind; That bids us be early i’ plewin’ an’ sowin’, Fer him at neglects, tha’ll leave him behind.

p. 39Address ta t’ First Wesherwoman.

p. 39

I’ sooth shoo wor a reeal God-send, Ta t’ human race the greatest friend, An’ liv’d, no daht, at t’other end O’ history. Her name is nah, yah may depend, A mystery.

But sprang shoo up fra royal blood, Or some poor slave beyond the Flood, Mi blessing on the sooap an’ sud Shoo did invent; Her name sall renk ameng the good, If aw get sent.

If nobbut in a rainy dub, Shoo did at furst begin ta skrub, Or hed a proper weshin’ tub—  It’s all the same; Aw’d give a crahn, if aw’d to sub, To get her name.

I’ this wide world aw’m set afloat, Th’ poor regg’d possessor of one coat; Yet linen clean, aw on tha dote, An’ thus assert, Tha’rt worthy o’ great Shakespeare’s note—  A clean lin’ shirt.

p. 40Low is mi lot, an’ hard mi ways, While paddlin’ thro’ life’s stormy days; Yet aw will sing t’owd lass’s praise, Wi’ famous glee; Tho’ rude an’ rough sud be mi lays, Shoo’s t’lass for me.

p. 40

Bards hev sung the fairest fair, Their rosy cheeks an’ auburn hair; The dying lover’s deep despair, Their harps hev rung; But useful wimmin’s songs are rare, An’ seldom sung.

In a Pleasant Little Valley.

In a pleasant little valley near the ancient town of Ayr, Where the laddies they are honest, and the lassies they are fair; Where Doon in all her splendour ripples sweetly through the wood, And on its banks not long ago a little cottage stood; ’Twas there, in all her splendour, on a January morn, Appeared old Coila’s genius—when Robert Burns was born.

 Prev. P 26/83 next