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.