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Long Grey Mare
Written by peter green.
Ive got a long grey mare, she wont let me ride
I got a long grey mare, she wont let me ride
She makes me brush her in the morning
And put her to bed every night
Long grey mare, why cant we be just like before
Long grey mare, why cant we be just like before
We used to ride so hard
Until we just couldnt ride no more
Break:
Look at me grey mare, dont I feed you everyday
Look at me grey mare, dont I feed you everyday
But when I dig you with my spurs
You turn around the other way
song performed by by Fleetwood Mac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Jock O The Side
Now Liddisdale has ridden a raid,
But I wat they had better staid at hame;
For Mitchell o Winfield he is dead,
And my son Johnie is prisner tane?
With my fa ding diddle, la la dew diddle.
For Mangerton house auld Downie is gane,
Her coats she has kilted up to her knee;
And down the water wi speed she rins,
While tears in spaits fa fast frae her eie.
Then up and bespake the lord Mangerton:
'What news, what news, sister Downie, to me?'
'Bad news, bad news, my lord Mangerton;
Mitchel is killd, and tane they hae my son Johnie.'
'Neer fear, sister Downie,' quo Mangerton;
'I hae yokes of oxen, four-and-twentie,
My barns, my byres, and my faulds, a' weel filld,
And I'll part wi them a' ere Johnie shall die.
'Three men I'll take to set him free,
Weel harnessd a' wi best of steel;
The English rogues may hear, and drie
The weight o their braid swords to feel
'The Laird's Jock ane, the Laird's Wat twa,
O Hobie Noble, thou ane maun be!
Thy coat is blue, thou has been true,
Since England banishd thee, to me.'
Now, Hobie was an English man,
In Bewcastle-dale was bred and born;
But his misdeeds they were sae great,
They banished him neer to return.
Lord Mangerton then orders gave,--
'Your horses the wrang way maun a' be shod;
Like gentlemen ye must not seem,
But look like corn-caugers gawn ae road.
'Your armour gude ye maunna shaw,
Nor ance appear like men o weir;
As country lads be all arrayd,
Wi branks and brecham on ilk mare.'
Sae now a' their horses are shod the wrang way,
And Hobie has mounted his grey sae fine,
Jock his lively bay, Wat's on his white horse behind,
And on they rode for the water o Tyne.
At the Cholerford they a' light down,
And there, wi the help o the light o the moon,
A tree they cut, wi fifteen naggs upon each side,
To climb up the wall of Newcastle toun.
But when they came to Newcastle toun,
And were alighted at the wa,
They fand their tree three ells oer laigh,
They fand their stick baith short aid sma.
Then up and spake the Laird's ain Jock,
'There's naething for't; the gates we maun force.'
But when they cam the gate unto,
A proud porter withstood baith men and horse.
His neck in twa I wat they hae wrung;
Wi foot or hand he neer play'd paw;
His life and his keys at anes they hae taen,
And cast his body ahind the wa.
Now soon they reached Newcastle jail,
And to the prisner thus they call:
'Sleips thou, wakes thou, Jock o the Side,
Or is thou wearied o thy thrall?'
Jock answers thus, wi dolefu tone:
'Aft, aft I wake, I seldom sleip;
But wha's this kens my name sae weel,
And thus to hear my waes does seek?'
Then up and spake the good Laird's Jock:
'Neer fear ye now, my billie,' quo he;
'For here's the Laird's Jock, the Laird's Wat,
And Hobie Noble, come to set thee free.'
'Oh, had thy tongue, and speak nae mair,
And o thy talk now let me be!
For if a' Liddesdale were here the night,
The morn's the day that I maun die.
'Full fifteen stane o Spanish iron,
They hae laid a' right sair on me;
Wi locks and keys I am fast bound
Into this dungeon mirk and drearie.'
'Fear ye no that,' quo the Laird's Jock;
'A faint heart neer wan a fair ladie;
Work thou within, we'll work without,
And I'll be sworn we set thee free.'
The first strong dore that they came at,
They loosed it without a key;
The next chaind dore that they cam at,
They gard it a' in flinders flee.
The prisner now, upo his back,
The Laird's Jock's gotten up fu hie;
And down the stair him, irons and a',
Wi nae sma speed and joy brings he.
'Now, Jock, I wat,' quo Hobie Noble,
'Part o the weight ye may lay on me,'
'I wat weel no,' quo the Laird's Jock
'I count him lighter than a flee.'
Sae out at the gates they a' are gane,
The prisner's set on horseback hie;
And now wi speed they've tane the gate;
While ilk ane jokes fu wantonlie.
'O Jock, sae winsomely's ye ride,
Wi baith your feet upo ae side!
Sae weel's ye're harnessd, and sae trig!
In troth ye sit like ony bride.'
The night, tho wat, they didna mind,
But hied them on fu mirrilie,
Until they cam to Cholerford brae,
Where the water ran like mountains hie.
But when they came to Cholerford,
There they met with an auld man;
Says, 'Honest man, will the water ride?
Tell us in haste, if that ye can.'
'I wat weel no,' quo the good auld man;
'Here I hae livd this threty yeirs and three,
And I neer yet saw the Tyne sae big,
Nor rinning ance sae like a sea.'
Then up and spake the Laird's saft Wat,
The greatest coward in the company;
'Now halt, now halt, we needna try't;
The day is comd we a' maun die!'
'Poor faint-hearted thief!' quo the Laird's Jock,
'There'll nae man die but he that's fie;
I'll lead ye a' right safely through;
Lift ye the prisner on ahint me.
Sae now the water they a' hae tane,
By anes and 'twas they a' swam through
'Here are we a' safe,' says the Laird's Jock,
'And, poor faint Wat, what think ye now?'
They scarce the ither side had won,
When twenty men they saw pursue;
Frae Newcastle town they had been sent,
A' English lads right good and true.
But when the land-sergeant the water saw,
'It winna ride, my lads,' quo he;
Then out he cries, 'Ye the prisner may take,
But leave the irons, I pray, to me.'
'I wat weel no,' cryd the Laird's Jock,
'I'll keep them a'; shoon to my mare they'll be;
My good grey mare; for I am sure,
She's bought them a' fu dear frae thee.'
Sae now they're away for Liddisdale,
Een as fast as they coud them hie;
The prisner's brought to his ain fireside,
And there o's airns they make him free.
'Now, Jock, my billie,' quo a' the three,
'The day was comd thou was to die;
But thou's as weel at thy ain fireside,
Now sitting, I think, 'tween thee and me.'
They hae gard fill up ae punch-bowl,
And after it they maun hae anither,
And thus the night they a' hae spent,
Just as they had been brither and brither.
poem by Andrew Lang
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Jindgi Ne Lehro
jindgi ni lehro ma bhinajavu 6 mare Pan..
jindgi ni kef ma rachavu tu mare pan...
pan swarth ane samay na aa hisabo na sarvala ma j gunchavayo 6u Aaje..
jya khovayo hato tya sodhu 6u mujane..
pan Aa bhrstachar na dambhi kef ma ranagi gayo 6u...
bus svaas pan har pal meet mandi ne bethi 6 mot ni..
bus
jindgi na Aakhari palo ne to moaj ma rami dau...
bus jara Aam to karto jaav mara pran to beeja na name karto jaav...
jindgi ni lehro ma bhinajavu 6 mare Pan..
jindgi ni kef ma rachavu tu mare pan...
jindagi...
poem by Sandeep Jahaal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dat Ol' Mare O' Mine
Want to trade me, do you, mistah? Oh, well, now, I reckon not,
W'y you could n't buy my Sukey fu' a thousan' on de spot.
Dat ol' mare o' mine?
Yes, huh coat ah long an' shaggy, an' she ain't no shakes to see;
Dat's a ring-bone, yes, you right, suh, an' she got a on'ry knee,
But dey ain't no use in talkin', she de only hoss fu' me,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
Co'se, I knows dat Suke 's contra'y, an' she moughty ap' to vex;
But you got to mek erlowance fu' de nature of huh sex;
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
Ef you pull her on de lef han'; she plum 'termined to go right,
A cannon could n't skeer huh, but she boun' to tek a fright
At a piece o' common paper, or anyt'ing whut's white,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
Wen my eyes commence to fail me, dough, I trus'es to huh sight,
An' she 'll tote me safe an' hones' on de ve'y da'kes' night,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
Ef I whup huh, she jes' switch huh tail, an' settle to a walk,
Ef I whup huh mo', she shek huh haid, an' lak ez not, she balk.
But huh sense ain't no ways lackin', she do evah t'ing but talk,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
But she gentle ez a lady w'en she know huh beau kin see.
An' she sholy got mo' gumption any day den you or me,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
She's a leetle slow a-goin,' an' she moughty ha'd to sta't,
But we 's gittin' ol' togathah, an' she 's closah to my hea't,
An' I does n't reckon, mistah, dat she 'd sca'cely keer to pa't;
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
W'y I knows de time dat cidah 's kin' o' muddled up my haid,
Ef it had n't been fu' Sukey hyeah, I reckon I 'd been daid;
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
But she got me in de middle o' de road an' tuk me home,
An' she would n't let me wandah, ner she would n't let me roam,
Dat's de kin' o' hoss to tie to w'en you 's seed de cidah's foam,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
You kin talk erbout yo' heaven, you kin talk erbout yo' hell,
Dey is people, dey is hosses, den dey's cattle, den dey's--well--
Dat ol' mare o' mine;
She de beatenes' t'ing dat evah struck de medders o' de town,
An' aldough huh haid ain't fittin' fu' to waih no golden crown,
D' ain't a blessed way fu' Petah fu' to tu'n my Sukey down,
Dat ol' mare o' mine.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Dyes Cast
Each night
As he drops his head
To the deep dream
Of the dark bed,
A shape beckons him
Wellaway
From the starlight
And the dim day.
A mare
Black as a spade, calls
From the dark hill
As the wind falls,
The reeds mutter
The night is black
As he leaps blind
To the mare’s back.
Then like the roar
Of an ill wind
Or a black flame
From the devil’s kiln,
The mare speeds
To the night’s work
By the old mill
And the dark Kirk.
Shapes flutter
And leap alight
Before they sputter
And, out of sight
Disport and mutter
Of black arts
To see the mare
And the rider pass.
Hour on hour
He clings to scenes
Of dark images,
Wild dreams
And chance friends
From the dead past
In the grim haunts
Of dyes cast.
His face burns
And tears stream
In the long night
Of the dark dream,
He clings grim
To the mare’s back
For his soul’s sake
And a long lack.
The day brinks
At night’s mist;
‘There may be nothing
More than this, ’
The mare fades
From his wide eyes –
But the thoughts bide,
And the old lies.
‘There may be nothing
More than this! ’
And his mind seeks
The mare, the mist;
‘There may be nought
But the dead past,
And the dark haunts
Of dyes cast.’
27 December 1978
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Twa Jocks
Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska tae Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye:
"That's whit I hate maist aboot fechtin' -- it makes ye sae deevilish dry;
Noo jist hae a keek at yon ferm-hoose them Gairmans are poundin' sae fine,
Weel, think o' it, doon in the dunnie there's bottles and bottles o' wine.
A' hell's fairly belchin' oot yonner, but oh, lad, I'm ettlin' tae try. . . ."
"If it's poose she'll be with ye whateffer," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye.~
Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: "Whit price fur a funeral wreath?
We're dodgin' a' kinds o' destruction, an' jist by the skin o' oor teeth.
Here, spread yersel oot on yer belly, and slither along in the glaur;
Confoond ye, ye big Hielan' deevil! Ye don't realize there's a war.
Ye think that ye're back in Dunvegan, and herdin' the wee bits o' kye."
"She'll neffer trink wine in Dunfegan," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye.~
Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: "Thank goodness! the ferm-hoose at last;
There's no muckle left but the cellar, an' even that's vanishin' fast.
Look oot, there's the corpse o' a wumman, sair mangelt and deid by her lane.
Quick! Strike a match. . . . Whit did I tell ye! A hale bonny box o' shampane;
Jist knock the heid aff o' a bottle. . . . Haud on, mon, I'm hearing a cry. . . ."
"She'll think it's a wean that wass greetin'," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye.~
Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: quot;Ma conscience! I'm hanged but yer richt.
It's yin o' thae waifs of the war-field, a' sobbin' and shakin' wi' fricht.
Wheesht noo, dear, we're no gaun tae hurt ye. We're takin' ye hame, my wee doo!
We've got tae get back wi' her, Hecky. Whit mercy we didna get fou!
We'll no touch a drap o' that likker -- that's hard, man, ye canna deny. . . ."
"It's the last thing she'll think o' denyin'," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye.
Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: "If I should get struck frae the rear,
Ye'll tak' and ye'll shield the wee lassie, and rin for the lines like a deer.
God! Wis that the breenge o' a bullet? I'm thinkin' it's cracket ma spine.
I'm doon on ma knees in the glabber; I'm fearin', auld man, I've got mine.
Here, quick! Pit yer erms roon the lassie. Noo, rin, lad! good luck and good-by. . . .
"Hoots, mon! it's ye baith she'll be takin'," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye.~
Says Corporal Muckle frae Rannoch: "Is that no' a picture tae frame?
Twa sair woundit Jocks wi' a lassie jist like ma wee Jeannie at hame.
We're prood o' ye baith, ma brave heroes. We'll gie ye a medal, I think."
Says Bauldy MacGreegor frae Gleska: "I'd raither ye gied me a drink.
I'll no speak for Private MacCrimmon, but oh, mon, I'm perishin' dry. . . ."
"She'll wush that Loch Lefen wass whuskey," says Hecky MacCrimmon frae Skye.~
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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There is naething ill said that's no ill tane.
Ye have tane't upon you as the wife did the dancing.
Behold! The Night Mare
Ive faced the fathoms in your deep
Withstood the suitors quiet siege
Pulled down the heavens just to please you
Appease you
The wind blows and I know
I cant go on, digging roses from you grave
To linger on, beyond the beyond
Where the willows weep
And whirlpools sleep, youll find me
The coarse tide reflects sky
And the night mare rides on, and the night mare rides on
With a december black psalm
And the night mare rides on
What I fear is lost here
The wind blows and I know
All you have to do is run away
And steal yourself from me
Become a mystery to gaze into
Youre so cruel in all you do
But still I believe, I believe in you
So may you come with your own knives
Youll never take me alive
With all the force of what is true
Is there nothing I can do?
I cant go on, digging roses from you grave
To linger on, beyond the beyond
Where the willows weep
And whirlpools sleep, youll find me
And the night mare rides on, and the night mare rides on
With a december black psalm
And the night mare rides on
Ive faced the fathoms in your deep
Withstood the suitors quiet siege
Pulled down the heavens just to please you
To hold the flower I cant keep
song performed by by Smashing Pumpkins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The power of female
A farm horse is drawn to a farm mare.
A race horse too will be
Averse not to a farm mare.
Such is the power of the female.
03.03.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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It Was A' For Our Rightfu' King
It was a' for our rightfu' king
That we left fair Scotland's strand;
It was a' for our rightfu' king
We e'er saw Irish land, my dear,
We e'er saw Irish land.
Now a' is done that men can do,
And a' is done in vain!
My love, and native land, fareweel,
For I maun cross the main, my dear,
For I maun cross the main.
He turn'd him right and round about,
Upon the Irish shore,
He gave his bridle-reins a shake,
With, Adieu for evermore, my dear,
And adieu for evermore.
The soldier frae the war returns,
And the merchant frae the main.
But I hae parted frae my love,
Never to meet again, my dear,
Never to meet again.
When day is gone and night is come,
And a' folk bound to sleep,
I think on him that's far awa
The lee-lang night, and weep, my dear,
The lee-lang night, and weep.
poem by Robert Burns
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It was a' for our Rightful King
1 It was a' for our rightful king
2 That we left fair Scotland's strand;
3 It was a' for our rightful king
4 We e'er saw Irish land,
5 My dear,
6 We e'er saw Irish land.
7 Now a' is done that men can do,
8 And a' is done in vain!
9 My love, and native land, fareweel!
10 For I maun cross the main,
11 My dear,
12 For I maun cross the main.
13 He turn'd him right and round about,
14 Upon the Irish shore,
15 He gave his bridle-reins a shake,
16 With, Adieu for evermore,
17 My dear!
18 And adieu for evermore!
19 The soldier frae the war returns,
20 And the merchant frae the main.
21 But I hae parted frae my love,
22 Never to meet again,
23 My dear,
24 Never to meet again.
25 When day is gone and night is come,
26 And a' folk bound to sleep,
27 I think on him that's far awa
28 The lee-lang night, and weep,
29 My dear,
30 The lee-lang night, and weep.
poem by Robert Burns
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On A Winter Afternoon
A gray mare standing beside
The snow covered wooden fence.
The fence along a country road
Icy and well traveled.
Cars and trucks passing by;
Few noticing the gray mare
Breathing hot fog
From her nostrils.
The gray mare noticing all
Passing by, the wind in her hair,
Ruffling her mane. Patiently,
Standing by the snow covered
Wooden gate.
Awaiting her masters return
From work to bring her safely
Across the country road
To her home, the red barn,
And a meal of winter hay.
poem by Joe Wocoski
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Hobbie Noble
Foul fa' the breast first treason bred in!
That Liddesdale may safely say:
For in it there was baith meat and drink,
And corn unto our geldings gay.
We were stout-hearted men and true,
As England it did often say;
But now we may turn our backs and fly,
Since brave Noble is seld away.
Now Hobie he was an English man,
And born into Bewcastle dale;
But his misdeeds they were sae great,
They banish'd him to Liddisdale.
At Kershope foot the tryst was set,
Kershope of the lilye lee;
And there was traitour Sim o' the Mains,
With him a private companie.
Then Hobie has graith'd his body weel,
I wat it was wi' baith good iron and steel;
And he has pull'd out his fringed grey,
And there, brave Noble, he rade him weel.
Then Hobie is down the water gane,
E'en as fast as he may drie;
Tho' they shoud a' brusten and broken their hearts,
Frae that tryst Noble he would na be.
'Weel may ye be, my feiries five!
And aye, what is your wills wi' me?'
Then they cry'd a' wi' ae consent,
'Thou'rt welcome here, brave Noble, to me.
'Wilt thou with us in England ride,
And thy safe warrand we will be?
If we get a horse worth a hundred punds,
Upon his back that thou shalt be.'
'I dare not with you into England ride;
The Land-sergeant has me at feid:
I know not what evil may betide,
For Peter of Whitfield, his brother, is dead.
'And Anton Shiel he loves not me,
For I gat twa drifts o his sheep;
The great Earl of Whitfield loves me not,
For nae gear frae me he e'er could keep.
'But will ye stay till the day gae down,
Until the night come o'er the grund,
And I'll be a guide worth ony twa,
That may in Liddesdale be fund?
'Tho' dark the night as pitch and tar,
I'll guide ye o'er yon hills fu' hie;
And bring ye a' in safety back,
If ye'll be true and follow me.'
He's guided them o'er moss and muir,
O'er hill and houp, and mony a down;
Til they came to the Foulbogshiel,
And there, brave Noble, he lighted down.
But word is gane to the Land-sergeant,
In Askirton where that he lay--
'The deer that ye hae hunted lang,
Is seen into the Waste this day.'
'Then Hobbie Noble is that deer!
I wat he carries the style fu' hie;
Aft has he beat your slough-hounds back,
And set yourselves at little lee.
'Gar warn the bows of Hartlie-burn;
See they shaft their arrows on the wa'!
Warn Willeva and Spear Edom,
And see the morn they meet me a'.
'Gar meet me on the Rodric-haugh,
And see it be by break o' day;
And we will on to Conscowthart-Green,
For there, I think, we'll get our prey.'
Then Hobbie Noble has dream'd a dream,
In the Foulbogshiel, where that he lay;
He thought his horse was neath him shot,
And he himself got hard away.
The cocks could crow, the day could dawn,
And I wot so even down fell the rain;
If Hobbie had no waken'd at that time,
In the Foulbogshiel he had been tane or slain.
'Get up, get up, my feiries five!
For I wot here makes a fu' ill day;
Yet the warst cloak of this companie,
I hope, shall cross the Waste this day.'
Now Hobie thought the gates were clear;
But, ever alas! it was not sae:
They were beset wi' cruel men and keen,
That away brave Hobbie could not gae.
'Yet follow me, my feiries five,
And see of me ye keep good ray;
And the worst cloak o' this companie
I hope shall cross the Waste this day.'
There was heaps of men now Hobbie before,
And other heaps was him behind,
That had he wight as Wallace was,
Away brave Noble he could not win.
Then Hobie he had but a laddies sword;
But he did more than a laddies deed;
In the midst of Conscouthart-Green,
He brake it oer Jersawigham's head.
Now they have tane brave Hobie Noble,
Wi' his ain bowstring they band him sae;
And I wat heart was ne'er sae sair,
As when his ain five band him on the brae.
They have tane him on for West Carlisle;
They ask'd him if he knew the why?
Whate'er he thought, yet little he said;
He knew the way as well as they.
They hae ta'en him up the Ricker gate;
The wives they cast their windows wide;
And every wife to anither can say,
'That's the man loos'd Jock o' the Side!'
'Fye on ye, women! why ca' ye me man?
For it's nae man that I'm used like;
I am but like a forfoughen hound,
Has been fighting in a dirty syke.'
Then they hae tane him up thro' Carlisle town,
And set him by the chimney fire;
They gave brave Noble a wheat loaf to eat,
And that was little his desire.
Then they gave him a wheat loaf to eat,
And after that a can o beer;
Then they cried a' with ae consent,
'Eat, brave Noble, and make gude cheer!
'Confess my lord's horse, Hobie,' they said,
'And the morn in Carlisle thou's no die;'
'How shall I confess them,' Hobie says,
'For I never saw them with mine eye?'
Then Hobie has sworn a fu' great aith,
By the day that he was gotten and born,
He never had ony thing o' my lord's,
That either eat him grass or corn.
'Now fare thee weel, sweet Mangerton!
For I think again I'll ne'er thee see:
I wad betray nae lad alive,
For a' the goud in Christentie.
'And fare thee weel, sweet Liddesdale!
Baith the hie land and the law;
Keep ye weel frae traitor Mains!
For goud and gear he'll sell ye a'.
'Yet wad I rather be ca'd Hobie Noble,
In Carlisle where he suffers for his faut,
Before I'd be ca'd traitor Mains,
That eats and drinks of the meal and maut.'
poem by Andrew Lang
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Laily Worm and the Mackerel of the Sea
"I was bat seven year alld
Fan my mider she did dee,
My father marr{.e}d the ae warst woman
The wardle did ever see.
"For she has made me the lailly worm
That lays att the fitt of the tree,
An o my sister Meassry
The machrel of the sea.
"An every Saterday att noon
The machrl comes to me,
An she takes my layl{.e} head,
An lays it on her knee,
An keames it we a silver kemm,
An washes it in the sea.
"Seven knights ha I slain
Sane I lay att the fitt of the tree;
An ye war na my ain father,
The eight an ye sud be."
"Sing on your song, ye laily worm,
That ye sung to me;"
"I never sung that song
But fatt I wad sing to ye.
"I was but seven year aull
Fan my mider she did dee,
My father marr{.e}d the a warst woman
The wardle did ever see.
"She changed me to the layely worm
That layes att the fitt of the tree,
An my sister Messry
To the makrell of the sea.
"And every Saterday att noon
The machrell comes to me,
An she takes my layly head,
An layes it on her knee,
An kames it weth a siller kame,
An washes it in the sea.
"Seven knights ha I slain
San I lay att the fitt of the tree;
An ye war na my ain father,
The eight ye sud be."
He sent for his lady
As fast as sen cod he:
"Far is my son,
That ye sent fra me,
And my daughter,
Lady Messry?"
"Yer son is att our king's court,
Sarving for meatt an fee,
And yer daughter is att our quin's court,
A mary suit an free."
"Ye lee, ye ill woman,
Sa loud as I hear ye lea,
For my son is the layelly worm
That lays at the fitt of the tree,
An my daughter Messry
The machrell of the sea."
She has tain a silver wan
An gine him stroks three,
And he started up the bravest knight
Your eyes did ever see.
She has tane a small horn
An loud an shill blue she,
An a' the fish came her tell but the proud machrell,
An she stood by the sea:
"Ye shaped me ance an unshemly shape,
And ye's never mare shape me."
He has sent to the wood
For hathorn an fun,
An he has tane that gay lady,
An ther he did her burne.
poem by Anonymous Americas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Song
O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad,
O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad;
Tho' father, and mother, and a' should gae mad,
Thy Jeanie will venture wi'ye, my lad.
But warily tent, when ye come to court me,
And come nae unless the back-yett be a-jee;
Syne up the back-style and let naebody see,
And come as ye were na comin to me--
And come as ye were na comin to me--
O whistle &c.
At kirk, or at market whene'er ye meet me,
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd nae a flie;
But steal me a blink o' your bonie black e'e,
Yet look as ye were na looking at me--
Yet look as ye were na looking at me.--
O whistle &c.
Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me,
And whyles ye may lightly my beauty a wee;
But court nae anither, tho' jokin ye be,
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me--
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me--
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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