Three Scotch Songs

When I was a freckled bit bairn
And cam in frae my ploys to the fire,
Wi' my buits a' clamjamphried wi' shairn
And my jaicket a' speldered wi' mire,
I got gloomin' and glunchin' and paiks,
And nae bite frae the press or the pan,
And my auld grannie said as she skelped me to bed,
'Hech, sirs, what a burden is man!'
 
When I was a lang-leggit lad,
At waddin's and kirns a gey cheild,
I hae happit a lass in my maud
And gone cauldrife that she micht hae beild,
And convoyed her bye bogles and stirks,
A kiss at the hindmost my plan;
But a' that I fand was the wecht o' her hand,
And 'Hech, sirs, what a burden is man!'
 
When Ailie and me were made yin
We set up in a canty bit cot;
Sair wrocht we day oot and day in,
We were unco content wi' oor lot.
But whiles wi' a neebor I'd tak
A gless that my heid couldna stan';
Syne she'd greet for a week, and nae word wad she speak
But 'Hech, sirs, what a burden is man!'
 
She dee'd, and my dochter and me
For the lave wi' ilk ither maun shift.
Nae tentier lass could ye see;
The wooers cam doun like a drift;
But sune wi' an unco blae glower
Frae the doorstep they rade and they ran,
And she sigh to hersel', as she gae'd to the well
'Hech sirs, what a burden is man!'
 
She's mairrit by noo and she's got
A white-heided lass o' her ain.
White-heided mysel, as I stot
Roond the doors o' her shouther I'm fain.
What think ye that wean said yestreen?
I'll tell ye, believe't if ye can;
She primmed up her mou' and said saft as a doo,
'Hech, sirs, what a burden is man!'

I never likit the kingdom o' Fife,
    It's kail's as cauld as its wind and rain, 
And the folk that bide benorth o' the Clyde
    They speak a langwidge that's no' my ain.
Doun in the west is a clarty nest,
    And the big stane cities are no' for me ;
Sae I'll buckle my pack on my auld bent back
    And tak' the road for the South Countrie.
 
Whaur sall I enter the Promised Land,
    Owre the Sutra or doun the Lyne,
Up the side o' the water o' Clyde,
    Or cross the muirs at the heid o' Tyne,
Or staicherin' on by Crawfordjohn
    Yont to the glens where Tweed rins wee ?-
It's maitter sma' whaur your road may fa'
    Gin it land ye safe in the South Countrie.
 
You are the hills that my hert kens weel,
    Hame for the weary, rest for the auld,
Braid and high as the Aprile sky,
    Blue on the taps and green i' the fauld :
At ilka turn a bit wanderin' burn,
    And a canty biggin' on ilka lea-
There's nocht sae braw in the wide world's schaw,
    As the heughs and holms o' the South Countrie.
 
You are the lads that my hert lo'es weel,
    Frank and couthy and kind to a',
Wi' the open broo and the mirthfu' mou'
    And the open door at the e'ening's fa' ;
A trig hamesteid and a lauchin' breed
    O' weans that hearten the auld to see-
Sma' or great, can ye find the mate
    O' the folk that bide in the South Countrie ?
 
The lichtest fit that traivels the roads
    Maun lag and drag as the end grows near ;
Threescore and ten are the years o' men,
    And I'm by the bit by a lang, lang year.
Sae I'll seek my rest in the land lo'ed best,
    And ask nae mair than that God sall gie
To my failin' e'e for the hin'maist scene
    The gentle hills o' the South Countrie.