The Book of Scottish Song/Wattle's the waur o' the wear

Wattle’s the waur o’ the wear.

[Tune, "Fy let us a' to the bridal."]

On Tysday gaun out i' the e'enin'
Amang the green woodlands alane,
I heard a fair maid complainin'
An' making a pityfu' maen,
An' this was the mournfu' occasion,
The source o' the saut gushin' tear,
An' burden o' her lamentation,
"Auld Wattie's the waur o' the wear."

Ye birds in the green woodlands singing,
Ye shepherds o' dark ravin' Dee,
Ye rocks and ye wild echoes ringing,
Ye cleughs fu' o' gladness an' glee;
Owre Jeanie's sad fate dinna swagger,
Your music delights na her ear,
It sends to her heart like a dagger,
"Auld Wattie's the waur o' the wear."

My daddy for luve o' the tocher,
Ga'e sour-gabbit grey-beard his Jean,
The body dow naething but clochar,
An' grane like a brownie at e'en;
His jaws canna chow a saft bannock,
He growls like a Norawa bear,
The verra weans cry through the winnock,
"Auld Wattie's the waur o' the wear."

Gley'd Gibbie thraws on his grey jacket,
It kivers a rukle o' banes,
An' lilts awa' hame like a cricket,
An' craws owre his cleckin' o' weans.
An' lingle-tall'd Tibbie, their mither,
Ca's him baith her joy an' her dear,
Gude sen' Josie Tait an' his tether,
For Wattie's the waur o' the wear.

Now wae to the weary psalm-lelter,
Wha thrice i' the kirk fill't my e'e,
An' wae to the haly sin-pelter,
Wha kippl't the carl to me.
An' wae to the grey colt that carry't
The sorrowfu' bride o' Troqueer,
An' dool to the day I was marry't
To Wattie the waur o' the wear.

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