Poor me.
[John Mitchell.—Here first printed.]
When gowd's in the pocket there's mirth in the ha',
And lightly the hours o'er our heads glide awa',
The tongue tells its tales wi' the cantiest glee,
And the lips wear a smile that's near seen on—"poor me!"
But when in the pocket the fingers in vain
Attempt but ae coin o' our Queen's to obtain,
How dowie we sit wi' the tear in our e'e,
And sigh as we whisper in secret—"poor me!"
Our trade's gane awa' and my meal-pock is toom,
And muckle I fear I'll ne'er fill't at the loom,
Sae I to a far distant kintra maun flee;
For, O! I am weary o' singing—"poor me!"
I ance dream't that fortune had feather'd my nest,
But dreams are aye contrar', sae I maun just rest
On what poortith likes in my cauld hame to lea',
With whom I aft sing in sad chorus—"poor me!"
My coat is thread bare, and my cheeks ha'e grown thin,
And drear is the path fate has doom'd me to rin,
The vera wee birds, as I pass them, agree
To sing but ae sang, and that sang is—"poor me!"
The flowers in their beauty will shed their perfume
On a' that comes near them to gaze on their bloom,
But do what I will, frae my presence men flee,
They canna be fash'd wi' the lilt o'—"poor me!"
Border Song.
[W. A. Foster.—Here first printed.]
Come listen now, ladies,—it winna be lang,
While I sing you a cannie Northumberland sang;
It will tell you o' sports that have lang been my pride,
And the games we've been haddin' in bonnie Till side;
There 's few keener o' them,—come tell me o' ane,—
For thrawing the hammer, or putting the stane.
The Cheviot bred lads may beat us for speed;
And the prize for the jumping may gang to the Tweed;
The quoits to the town, and the race to the hill;
But there's something we'll keep on the banks of the Till:
Two prizes there are,— I will yield them to nane—
The thrawing the hammer and putting the stane.
