The Book of Scottish Song/My Mammy
My Mammy.
[This song, to the tone of "Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair," or, as it was more anciently called, "Lumps o' puddin'," is here printed for the first time.]
Ilk ane now-a-days brags awa' 'bout his dear,
And praises her ripe lips and bright een sae clear;
But neither the ripe lip nor bonnie blue e'e
Can compare wi' the blink o' my mammy to me.
A bairn in her bosom I lay a' the night,
When there, neither bogles nor ghaists could me fright;
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When yamm'rin', she bush'd me to sleep on her knee:
O! whae'er can compare wi' my mammy to me?
Fu' aft in her face I ha'e look'd up fu' fain,
While fondly she clasp'd me and croon'd some auld strain,
And aften the saut tear wad start to my e'e:
They were waesome, the sangs o' my manuny, to me.
O! yes, I ha'e grat for the twa bonnie weans
The wee robins cover'd wi' leaves wi' sic pains
And still, like a sunbeam that glints o'er the sea,
The auld sangs o' my mammy return back to me.
When sickness o'ercam' me, she watch'd late and air.
If open'd my dull e'e, I aye saw her there;
When roses my pale cheeks o'erspread, blythe was she—
O! whae'er was sae kind as my mammy to me?
Lang, lang I'll remember the days that are gane,
Since first I could Usp mam' and toddle my lane;
Though sair I be toss'd upon life's troubled sea,
Yet my heart will aye cling wi' affection to thee.
W. G. B.