The Book of Scottish Song/Heather Jock

Heather Jock.

[Air, "Donald Caird."]

Heather Jock's noo awa',
Heather Jock's noo awa';
The muircock noo may crousely craw
Since heather Jock's noo awa'.

Heather Jock was stark and grim,
Faucht wi' a' would fecht wi' him;
Swank and supple, sharp and thin,
Fine for gaun against the win'.
Tawnie face and tousie hair,
In his cleading unco bare,
Cursed and swore whene'er he spoke,
Nane could equal heather Jock.

Jock kent ilka bore and bole,
Could creep through a wee bit hole,
Quietly pilfer eggs and cheese,
Dunts o' bacon, skeps o' bees;
Sip the kirn and steal the butter,
Nail the hens without a flutter;
Na! the watchfu' wily cock
Durstna craw for Heather Jock.

Eppie Blaikie lost her goun,
She coft sae dear at borough toun;
Sandie Tamson's Sunday wig,
Left the hoose to rin the rig;
Jenny Baxter's blankets a',
Took a thocht to slip awa';
An' a' the weans bit printed frocks—
Wha was thief but Heather Jock?

Jock was nae religious youth,
For at the priest he thraw'd his mouth,
He wadna say a grace nor pray,
But play'd his pipes on Sabbath day;
Robbed the kirk o' baan and book,
Everything would lift—he took;
He didna lea the weather-cock,
Sic a thief was Heather Jock.

Nane wi' Jock could draw a tricker,
'Mang the moor-fowl he was sicker,
He watch'd the wild ducks at the springs,
And hang'd the hares in hempen strings,
Blass'd the burns and speer'd the fish,
Jock had mony a dainty dish,
The best o' moor-fowl and black-cock,
Aye graced the board o' Heather Jock.

Nane wi' Jock had ony say,
At the neive or cudgel play,
Jock for bolt nor bar e'er staid,
Till ance the jail his courage laid,
Then the judge, without delay,
Sent him aff to Botany Bay,
And bade him mind the laws he broke,
And never mair play Heather Jock.

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