| |
| SURROUNDED wi’ bent and wi’ heather, | |
| Where muircocks and plivers are rife, | |
| For mony a lang towmont thegither | |
| There lived an auld man and his wife. | |
| |
| About the affairs o’ the nation | 5 |
| The twasome they seldom were mute; | |
| Bonaparte, the French, and invasion, | |
| Did saur in their wizens like soot. | |
| |
| In winter, when deep are the gutters, | |
| And night’s gloomy canopy spread, | 10 |
| Auld Symon sat luntin’ his cuttie, | |
| And lowsin’ his buttons for bed: | |
| |
| Auld Janet, his wife, out a-gazin’ | |
| (To lock in the door was her care), | |
| She, seeing our signals a-blazin’, | 15 |
| Cam’ running in rivin’ her hair. | |
| |
| ‘O Symon, the Frenchmen are landit! | |
| Gae look, man, and slip on your shoon; | |
| Our signals I see them extendit, | |
| Like the red rising blaze o’ the moon!’ | 20 |
| |
| ‘What plague, the French landit!’ quo’ Symon, | |
| And clash! gaed his pipe to the wa’; | |
| ‘Faith, then there’s be loadin’ and primin’,’ | |
| Quo’ he, ‘if they’re landit ava’! | |
| |
| ‘Our youngest son’s in the militia; | 25 |
| Our eldest grandson’s volunteer; | |
| And the French to be fu’ o’ the flesh o’, | |
| I too in the ranks will appear.’ | |
| |
| His waistcoat-pouch fill’d he wi’ pouther, | |
| And bang’d down his rusty auld gun; | 30 |
| His bullets he put in the other, | |
| That he for the purpose had run. | |
| |
| Then humpled he out in a hurry, | |
| While Janet his courage bewails, | |
| And cries out, ‘Dear Symon, be wary;’ | 35 |
| Whilst teughly she hung by his tails. | |
| |
| ‘Let be wi’ your kindness,’ quo’ Symon, | |
| ‘Nor vex me wi’ tears and your cares; | |
| If now I be ruled by a woman, | |
| Nae laurels shall crown my grey hairs.’ | 40 |
| |
| Quo’ Janet, ‘O keep frae the riot! | |
| Last night, man, I dreamt ye was dead;— | |
| This aught days I’ve tentit a pyot | |
| Sit chatterin’ upon the house-head. | |
| |
| ‘And yesterday, workin’ my stockin’, | 45 |
| And you wi’ your sheep on the hill, | |
| A muckle black corbie sat croackin’,— | |
| I kenn’d it foreboded some ill.’ | |
| |
| ‘Hout, cheer up, dear Janet, be hearty; | |
| For, ere the next sun may gae doun, | 50 |
| Wha kens but I’ll shoot Bonaparte, | |
| And end my auld days in renown?’ | |
| |
| ‘Then, hear me,’ quo’ Janet, ‘I pray thee; | |
| I’ll tend thee, love, livin’ or dead; | |
| And if thou should fa’ I’ll die wi’ thee, | 55 |
| Or tie up thy wounds if thou bleed.’ | |
| |
| Syne aff in a hurry he stumpled, | |
| Wi’ bullets, and pouther, and gun; | |
| At’s curpin auld Janet too humpled,— | |
| Awa’ to the neighbouring toon. | 60 |
| |
| There footmen and yeomen, paradin’, | |
| To scour aff in dirdum were seen— | |
| Auld wives and young lassies a-sheddin’ | |
| The briny saut tears frae their een. | |
| |
| Then aff wi’ his bonnet gat Symon, | 65 |
| And to the commander he gaes; | |
| Quo’ he, ‘Sir, I mean to go wi’ ye, man, | |
| And help ye to lounder our faes. | |
| |
| ‘I’m auld, yet I’m teugh as the wire; | |
| Sae we’ll at the rogues have a dash— | 70 |
| And, fegs, if my gun winna fire, | |
| I’ll turn her butt-end and I’ll thrash!’ | |
| |
| ‘Well spoken, my hearty auld hero!’ | |
| The Captain did smiling reply; | |
| But begg’d he would stay till to-morrow, | 75 |
| Till daylight should glent in the sky. | |
| |
| What reck? a’ the stour cam’ to naething; | |
| Sae Symon and Janet, his dame, | |
| Hale-skart frae the wars, without skaithing | |
| Gaed bannin’ the French again hame. | 80 |
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