Come, rest ye here, Johnie,
what news frae the south?
Here's whey in a luggie
to slocken your drowth,
Our soldiers are landed,
my hopes are maist deeing,
I'm fear'd John to ask ye,
is Jamie in being?
 
Aye, troth, lass, they're landed,
and hameward they're coming,
In braw order marching,
wi' fifing and drumming:
I sell't my grey plaid,
my cauld winter's warm happin,
To cheer their leal hearts
wi' a gill and a chappin.
 
Your father's gudebrither,
the serjeant, wi' glee,
Pu'd a crown frae his pouch,
and loud laughing, quo' he,
Ye're owr auld to list,
or ye'd rug this fast frae me --
Mair drink here -- "but, John,
O nae word o' poor Jamie?"
 
The deil's i' the lassie,
there's nought in her noddle
But Jamie, ay Jamie,
she cares na ae boddle
For grey-headed heroes;
weel, what should I say now,
The lad's safe and weel,
what mair wad ye hae now?
 
He's weel! Gude be prais'd,
my dear laddie is weel!
Sic news! hech man, John,
ye're a sonsy auld cheel!
I'm doited -- I'm dais'd --
its fu' time I were rinnin,
The wark might be done
ere I think o' beginnin.
 
I'll rin like a mawkin,
and busk in my braws,
And link owr the hills
where the caller wind blaws,
And meet the dear lad,
wha was true to me ever,
And dorty nae mair --
O I'll part with him never!