The Book of Scottish Song/Though Boreas bauld

Though Boreas bauld.

[Capt. Charles Gray. — Air, "Maggie Lauder."]

Though Boreas bauld, that carle auld,
Should sough a surly chorus;
And winter fell walk out himsel',
And throw his mantle o'er us;
Though winds blaw drift adown the lift,
And drive hailstanes afore 'em,
While you an' I sit snug an' dry,
Let's push about the jorum!

Though no a bird can now be heard
Upon the leafless timmer;
Whate'er betide, the ingle side
Can mak' the winter simmer!
Though cauldrife souls hate reeking bowls,
And loath what's set before 'em;
How sweet to tout the glasses out—
O leeze me on a jorum!

The hie hill taps, like baxters' baps,
Wi'snaw are white and floury;
Skyte down the lum, the hailstanes come
In winter's wildest fury!
Sharp Johnny Frost wi' barkynt hoast
Maks trav'llers tramp the quicker;
Shou'd he come here to spoil our cheer,
We'll drown him in the bicker!

Bess, beet the fire—come big it higher,
Lest cauld should mak' us canker'd;
This is our hame, my dainty dame,
Sae, fill the tither tankard!
Wi' guid ait cakes, or butter bakes,
And routh o' whiskey toddy,
Wha daur complain, or mak' a mane,
That man's a saul-less body!

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