Amang our native woods and braes how pleasant the time,
To pu' for her I loo'd sae dear the primrose in its prime:
Then fairer bloom'd ilk bonnie flower, mair sweet the birds did sing,
When wi' the lass I dearly lo'ed, in days o' langsyne.
Then fairer bloom'd, &c.
Nae mair amang our bonnie glens we'll garlands entwine,
Nor pu' the wild-flower by the burn, to busk my lassie fine;
Nae mair upon yon sunny knowe we'll mark the sun decline,
Nor tell the tender tales that pleased in days o' langsyne.
Nae mair upon, &c.
But still through life we'll happy be, at fate ne'er repine:
Though warldly cares, at times, should thraw, we'll ne'er our pleasure tyne;
While seated here, in frien'ly glow, wi' hearts an' han's we join,
And bring again, wi' cantie glee, the days o' langsyne.
While seated here, &c.
Wae be to the orders.
[William Motherwell.—Music by R. A. Smith.]
Oh wae be to the orders that marched my luve awa'
And wae be to the cruel cause that gars my tears doun fa'!
Oh wae be to the bluidy wars in Hie Germanie,
For they ha'e ta'en my luve, and left a broken heart to me!
The drums beat in the mornin' afore the scriech o' day,
And the wee wee fifes piped loud and shrill, while yet the morn was grey;
The bonnie flags were a' unfurl'd, a gallant sight to see,
But waes me for my sodger lad that marched to Germanie.
Oh, lang, lang is the travel to the bonnie Pier o' Leith,
Oh dreich it is to gang on foot wi' the snaw drift in the teeth!
And oh, the cauld wind froze the tear that gather'd in my e'e,
When I gade there to see my luve embark for Germanie!
I looked ower the braid blue sea, sae lang as could be seen
Ae wee bit sail upon the ship, that my sodger lad was in;
But the wind was blawin' sair and snell, and the ship sailed speedilie,
And the waves and cruel wars ha'e twinn'd my winsome luve frae me.
I never think o' dancin', and I downa try to sing,
But a' the day I spier what news kind neibour bodies bring;
I sometimes knit a stocking, if knittin' it may be,
Syne for every loop that I cast on, I'm sure to let doun three.
My father says I'm in a pet, my mither jeers at me,
And bans me for a dautit wean, in dorts for aye to be;
But little weet they o' the cause that drumles sae my e'e:
Oh they ha'e nae winsome luve like mine in the wars o' Germanie!
