My Eppie wak'd, and soon she cried,
"Get up, gudeman, and let him in;
For weel ye ken the winter night
Was short when he began his din."
My Eppie's voice, O wow! it's sweet!
E'en though she bans and scaulds a wee;
But when it's tuned to sorrow's tale
O, haith, it's doubly dear to me!
"Come in, auld carle! I'll steer my fire,
And mak' it bleeze a bonnie flame;
Your blude is thin, ye've tint the gate,
Ye should nae stray sae far frae hame."
"Nae hame ha'e I," the Minstrel said,
"Sad party strife o'erturn'd my ha';
And, weeping, at the eve o' life
I wander through a wreath o' snaw."
"Waes me, auld carle! sad is your tale—
Your wallet's toom—your claithing thin;
Mine's no the hand to steek the door
When want and wae would fain be in."
We took him ben—we set him doun,
And soon the ingle bleez'd fu' hie;
The auld man thought himself at hame,
And dried the tear-drap frae his e'e.
Ance mair the Minstrel wak'd a strain—
Nae merry lilt, but sad and slow;
In fancy's ear it seem'd to wail
A free-born nation's overthrow.
The Barn, O.
[Written by James Stirrat of Dairy, in Ayrshire, and sung at a Country Rocking.—Printed here for the first time.]
There's monie lads and lasses braw,
Assembled here at friendship's ca',
To drive dull care a mile awa'
By dancing in the barn, O.
O the dainty barn, O—
Barn, barn, barn, O;
We'll loup till we be like to fa',
And wallop roun' the barn, O.
Sae, fiddlers, gi'e's a canty spring,
Play up till "roof and rafters ring,"
And let us dance the Highland fling
Wi' vigour in the barn, O.
O the merry barn, O—
Barn, barn, barn, O;
We'll bravely rant and blythely sing
In honour o' the barn, O.
Inspir'd by Scotia's rousing reels,
Bauk-height we'll spring wi' mettled heels,
Wi' "mountain dew" we'll oil life's wheels
And whirl round the barn, O.
O the joyous barn, O—
Barn, barn, barn, O;
Our darling joes, like gallant chiels,
We'll ouddle in the barn, O.
Wi' love and mirth and social glee
We'll still keep up the jovial spree,
While time on wings o' joy shall flee
Out owre the happy barn, O.
O the happy barn, O—
Barn, barn, barn, O;
And till the "morning lifts his e'e"
We winna lea' the barn, O.
When chanticleer begins to craw,
The toast shall be ere we gae wa',
"Guid morn and joy be wi' us a',"
And success to the barn, O.
O the glorious barn, O—
Barn, barn, barn, O;
We'll gi'e 't, at least, ae grand hurra,
Till echo rive the barn, O!
Coila’s Bard.
[James Stirrat.—Written for Burns' Anniversary, 1829.—Air, "There's nae luck about the house."—Of the numerous songs that have been composed in honour of Burns, this appears to us to be one of the finest.]
There's nae bard to charm us now,
Nae bard ava
Can sing a sang to nature true,
Since Coila's bard's awa'.
The simple harp o' earlier days
In silence slumbers now,
And modern art, wi' tuneless lays,
Presumes the Nine to woo.
But nae bard in a' our isle,
Nae bard ava,
Frae pawky Coila wins a smile
Since Robin gaed awa'.
