The Book of Scottish Song/Janet

Janet.

[Robert Nicoll.]

I'll mak' a fire upo' the knowe,
An' blaw it till it bleeze an' lowe;
Syne in't I'll ha'e ye burnt, I trow—
Ye ha'e bewitch'd me, Janet!

Your een in ilka starn I see—
The hale night lang I dream o' thee—
The bonnie lintie on the lea,
I liken to you, Janet!

When leaves are green, an' fresh an' fair-
When blythe an' sunny is the air—
I stroke my beard, and say they're rare;
But naething like you, Janet!

'Twas but yestreen, as I gaed hame,
The minister said, "What is your name?
My answer—'deed I may think shaime—
Was, "Sir, my name is Janet!"

Last Sabbath, as I sang the psalm,
I fell into an unco dwaum,
An' naething frae my lips e'er cam'
But "Janet! Janet! Janet!"

I've fought, I've danced, an' drucken too;
But nane o' thae are like to do;
Sae I maun come an' speer at you,
"What ails me, think ye, Janet?"

I'll soon be either dead or daft,
Sic drams o' luve frae you I've quaff'd;
Sae lay aside your woman-craft—
Ha'e mercy on me, Janet!

An' if ye winna, there's my loof,
I'll gar the provost lead a proof,
An' pit ye 'neath the tollbooth roof:
Syne what will ye do, Janet?

I'll mak' a fire upo' the knowe,
An' blaw it till it bleeze an' lowe;
Syne in 't I'll ha'e ye burnt, I trow—
Ye ha'e bewitch'd me, Janet!

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