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COLIN CLOUT.
a pastoral.
Chanticleer, wi' noisy whistle,
Bids the housewife rise in haste;
Colin Clout begins to hirsle
Slawly free his sleepless nest.
Love, that raises sic a clamour,
Driving lads an’ laſſes mad,
Wae’s my heart! had coost his glamour
O’er poor Colin, luckless lad!
Cruel Jenny, lack-a-daisy!
Lang had gart him greet an’ grane;
Colin’s pate was haflins crazy—
Jenny laugh’d at Colin’s pain!
Slawly up his duds he gathers,
Slawly slawly trudges out;
Frae the fauld he drives his weathers,
—Happier far than Colin Clout.
Now the sun, rais’d frae his nappie,
Set the Orient in a low,
Drinkin’ ilka glancin’ drappie,
I’ the field and o’ the know!
Mony a birdie, sweetly singin’,
