SYMON AND JANET.

AIR—­"Fy, let us a’ to the Bridal."

    Surrounded wi’ bent and wi’ heather,
      Whare muircocks and plivers are rife,
    For mony lang towmond thegither,
      There lived an auld man and his wife.

    About the affairs o’ the nation,
      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,
    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 seein’ our signals a-blazin’,
      Came runnin’ 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 red risin’ blaze o’ the moon!”

    “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,
      Our eldest grandson ’s volunteer: 
    O’ the French to be fu’ o’ the flesh o’,
      I too in the ranks shall appear.”

    His waistcoat pouch fill’d he wi’ pouther,
      And bang’d down his rusty auld gun;
    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 cried out, “Dear Symon, be wary!”
      And teughly she hang by his tails.

    “Let be wi’ your kindness,” quo’ Symon,
      “Nor vex me wi’ tears and your cares,
    For now to be ruled by a woman,
      Nae laurels shall crown my gray hairs.”

    Quo’ Janet, “Oh, keep frae the riot! 
      Last night, man, I dreamt ye was dead;
    This aught days I tentit a pyot
      Sit chatt’rin’ upo’ the house-head.

    “And yesterday, workin’ my stockin’,
      And you wi’ the sheep on the hill,
    A muckle black corbie sat croakin’;
      I kend it foreboded some ill.”

    “Hout, cheer up, dear Janet, be hearty,
      For ere the next sun may gae down,
    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, living or dead,
    And if thou should fa’ I ‘ll die wi’ thee,
      Or tie up thy wounds if thou bleed.”

    Syne aff in a fury he stumpled,
      Wi’ bullets, and pouther, and gun;
    At ’s curpin auld Janet too humpled,
      Awa to the next neighb’rin’ town.

    There footmen and yeomen paradin’,
      To scour aff in dirdum were seen,
    Auld wives and young lasses a-sheddin’
      The briny saut tears frae their een.