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JEAN ADAMS (?)

THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE

AND are ye sure the news is true?

And are ye sure he's weel?

Is this a time to think of wark?
Ye jauds, fling by your wheel.
Is this a time to think of wark,

When Colin's at the door?

Gie me my cloak!

I'll to the quay

And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck ava;

There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa'.

Rise up and mak' a clean fireside;

Put on the muckle pot;

Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown,

And Jock his Sunday coat:

And mak' their shoon as black as slaes,

Their hose as white as snaw;

It's a' to please my ain gudeman,

For he's been long awa'.

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There's twa fat hens upon the bauk,
Been fed this month and mair;

Mak' haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;

And mak' the table neat and clean,

Gar ilka thing look braw;
It's a' for love of my gudeman,
For he's been long awa'.

O gi'e me down my bigonet,

My bishop satin gown,

For I maun tell the bailie's wife

That Colin's come to town.

My Sunday shoon they maun gae on,

My hose o' pearlin blue;

'Tis a' to please my ain gudeman,

For he's baith leal and true.

Sae true his words, sae smooth his speech,

His breath's like caller air!

His very foot has music in't,

As he comes up the stair.
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy with the thought,

In troth, I'm like to greet.

The cauld blasts of the winter wind,

That thrilled through my heart,

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They're a' blawn by; I ha'e him safe,
Till death we'll never part:

But what puts parting in my head?

It may be far awa';

The present moment is our ain,

The neist we never saw.

Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content,

I ha'e nae mair to crave;

Could I but live to mak' him blest,

I'm blest above the lave:

And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, -
In troth, I'm like to greet.

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--

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JANE ELLIOT

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST

I'VE heard the lilting at our yowe-milking,
Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day:
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning -
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

5 At buchts, in the morning, nae blithe lads are scorning,

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The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae;

Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.

In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
The bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and grey;
At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching –
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming, 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play,

But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

Dool and wae was the order sent our lads to the Border! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;

The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye the fore

most,

The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay.

We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking,
Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

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