Cream of Tannahill's Songs (3)/Barrochan Jean
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For other versions of this work, see Barrochan Jean.
BARROCHAN JEAN.
'Tis hinna ye heard, man o' Barrochan Jean?
And hinna ye heard man o' Barrochan Jean?
How death and starvation came o'er the hail nation,
She wrought sic mischief wi' her twa pawky e'en;
The lads and the lasses were dying in dizzens,
The taen kill'd wi' love and tho tither wi' spleen,
The ploughing, the sawing, the shearing, the mawing,
A' wark was forgotten for Barrochan Jean!
And hinna ye heard man o' Barrochan Jean?
How death and starvation came o'er the hail nation,
She wrought sic mischief wi' her twa pawky e'en;
The lads and the lasses were dying in dizzens,
The taen kill'd wi' love and tho tither wi' spleen,
The ploughing, the sawing, the shearing, the mawing,
A' wark was forgotten for Barrochan Jean!
Frae the south and the north, o'er the Tweed and the Forth,
Sic coming and ganging there never was seen,
The comers were cheery, the gangers were blearie,
Despairing or hoping for Barrochan Jean.
The carlins at hame wore a' girning and granning,
The bairns were a' greeting frae morning till e'en,
They gat naething for crowdy, but runts boiled to sowdy,
For naethink gat growing for Barrochan Jean.
Sic coming and ganging there never was seen,
The comers were cheery, the gangers were blearie,
Despairing or hoping for Barrochan Jean.
The carlins at hame wore a' girning and granning,
The bairns were a' greeting frae morning till e'en,
They gat naething for crowdy, but runts boiled to sowdy,
For naethink gat growing for Barrochan Jean.
The doctors declar'd it was past their deseribing,
The ministers said 'twas a judgment for sin,
But they looked sae blae, and their hearts were sae wae,
I was sure they were dying for Barrochan Jean.
The burns on road-sides were a' dry wi' their drinking,
Yet a' wadna sloken the drouth o' their skin;
A' round the peat-stacks, and alangst tho dyke-backs,
E'en the winds were a' sighing, sweet Barrochan Jean
The ministers said 'twas a judgment for sin,
But they looked sae blae, and their hearts were sae wae,
I was sure they were dying for Barrochan Jean.
The burns on road-sides were a' dry wi' their drinking,
Yet a' wadna sloken the drouth o' their skin;
A' round the peat-stacks, and alangst tho dyke-backs,
E'en the winds were a' sighing, sweet Barrochan Jean
The timmer ran done wi' the making o' coffins,
Kirkyards o' their sward were a' howkit fu' clean,
Dead lovers were paekit like herring in barrels,
Sic thousands were dying for Barrochan Jean.
But mony braw thanks to the Laird o' Glen-Brodie,
The grass owre their groffs is now bonnie and green
Be sta' the proud heart of our wanton young lady,
And spoil'd a' the charms o' her twa Pawky een.
Kirkyards o' their sward were a' howkit fu' clean,
Dead lovers were paekit like herring in barrels,
Sic thousands were dying for Barrochan Jean.
But mony braw thanks to the Laird o' Glen-Brodie,
The grass owre their groffs is now bonnie and green
Be sta' the proud heart of our wanton young lady,
And spoil'd a' the charms o' her twa Pawky een.