The Book of Scottish Song/On the Death of Burns

On the Death of Burns.

[Richard Gall.—Tune, "O, wat ye wha's in yon toun."]

There's waefu' news in yon town,
As e'er the warld heard ava;
There's dolefu' news in yon town,
For Robbie's gane an' left them a'.

How blythe it was to see his face
Come keeking by the hallan wa'!
He ne'er was sweir to say the grace,
But now he's gane an' left them a'.

He was the lad wha made them glad,
Whanever he the reed did blaw:
The lasses there may drap a tear,
Their funny friend is now awa'.

Nae daffin now in yon town;
The browster-wife gets leave to draw
An' drink hersel', in yon town,
Sin' Robbie gaed an' left them a'.

The lawin's canny counted now,
The bell that tinkled ne'er will draw,
The king will never get his due,
Sin' Robbie gaed and left them a'.

The squads o' chiels that lo'ed a splore
On winter e'enings, never ca;
Their blythesome moments a' are o'er,
Sin' Robbie's gane an' left them a'.

Frae a' the een in yon town
I see the tears o' sorrow fa',
An' weel they may, in yon town,
Nae canty sang they hear ava.

Their e'ening sky begins to lour,
The murky clouds thegither draw;
'Twas but a blink afore a shower,
Ere Robbie gaed and left them a'.

The landwart hizzy winna speak;
Ye'll see her sitting like a craw
Amang the reek, while rattons squeak—
Her dawtit bard is now awa'.

But could I lay my hand upon
His whistle, keenly wad I blaw,
An' screw about the auld drone,
An' lilt a lightsome spring or twa.

If it were sweetest aye whan wat,
Then wad I ripe my pouch, an' draw,
An' steep it weel amang the maut,
As lang's I'd saxpence at my ca'.

For warld's gear I dinna care,
My stock o' that is unco sma'.
Come, friend, we'll pree the barley-bree
To his braid fame that's now awa'.

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