| |
| WHEN wild war’s deadly blast was blawn, | |
| And gentle peace returning, | |
| Wi’ mony a sweet babe fatherless, | |
| And mony a widow mourning; | |
| I left the lines and tented field, | 5 |
| Where lang I’d been a lodger, | |
| My humble knapsack a’ my wealth, | |
| A poor and honest sodger. | |
| |
| A leal, light heart was in my breast, | |
| My hand unstain’d wi’ plunder; | 10 |
| And for fair Scotia hame again, | |
| I cheery on did wander: | |
| I thought upon the banks o’ Coil, | |
| I thought upon my Nancy, | |
| I thought upon the witching smile | 15 |
| That caught my youthful fancy. | |
| |
| At length I reach’d the bonie glen, | |
| Where early life I sported; | |
| I pass’d the mill and trysting thorn, | |
| Where Nancy aft I courted: | 20 |
| Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, | |
| Down by her mother’s dwelling! | |
| And turn’d me round to hide the flood | |
| That in my een was swelling. | |
| |
| Wi’ alter’d voice, quoth I, “Sweet lass, | 25 |
| Sweet as yon hawthorn’s blossom, | |
| O! happy, happy may he be, | |
| That’s dearest to thy bosom: | |
| My purse is light, I’ve far to gang, | |
| And fain would be thy lodger; | 30 |
| I’ve serv’d my king and country lang— | |
| Take pity on a sodger.” | |
| |
| Sae wistfully she gaz’d on me, | |
| And lovelier was than ever; | |
| Quo’ she, “A sodger ance I lo’ed, | 35 |
| Forget him shall I never: | |
| Our humble cot, and hamely fare, | |
| Ye freely shall partake it; | |
| That gallant badge-the dear cockade, | |
| Ye’re welcome for the sake o’t.” | 40 |
| |
| She gaz’d—she redden’d like a rose— | |
| Syne pale like only lily; | |
| She sank within my arms, and cried, | |
| “Art thou my ain dear Willie?” | |
| “By him who made yon sun and sky! | 45 |
| By whom true love’s regarded, | |
| I am the man; and thus may still | |
| True lovers be rewarded. | |
| |
| “The wars are o’er, and I’m come hame, | |
| And find thee still true-hearted; | 50 |
| Tho’ poor in gear, we’re rich in love, | |
| And mair we’se ne’er be parted.” | |
| Quo’ she, “My grandsire left me gowd, | |
| A mailen plenish’d fairly; | |
| And come, my faithfu’ sodger lad, | 55 |
| Thou’rt welcome to it dearly!” | |
| |
| For gold the merchant ploughs the main, | |
| The farmer ploughs the manor; | |
| But glory is the sodger’s prize, | |
| The sodger’s wealth is honor: | 60 |
| The brave poor sodger ne’er despise, | |
| Nor count him as a stranger; | |
| Remember he’s his country’s stay, | |
| In day and hour of danger. | |
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