The Muckin' O' Geordie's Byre
At a relic aul' croft upon the hill,
Roon the neuk frae Sprottie's mill,
Tryin' a' his life tae jine the kill
Lived Geordie MacIntyre.
He had a wife as sweir's himsel'
An' a daughter as black's Auld Nick himsel'.
There wis some fun - haud awa' the smell-
At the muckin' o' Geordie's byre.
Chorus:
For the graip was tint, the besom was deen,
The barra widna row its leen,
An'siccan a soss it never was seen
At the muckin' o' Geordie's byre.
For the daughter had to strae and neep
The auld wife started to swipe the greep
When Geordie fell sklite on a rotten neep
At the muckin' o' Geordie's byre.
Ben the greep cam' Geordie's soo
She stood up ahint the coo
The coo kickit oot an' o whit a stew
At the muckin' o' Geordie's byre. (Chorus)
For the aul' wife she was booin' doon -
The soo was kickit on the croon
It shoved her heid in the wifie's goon
Then ben through Geordie's byre.
The daughter cam thro the barn door
An' seein' her mother let oot a roar,
To the midden she ran an' fell ower the boar
At the muckin' of Geordie's byre. (Chorus)
For the boar he lap the midden dyke
An' ower the riggs wi' Geordie's tyke.
They baith ran intil a bumbee's byke
At the muckin' o' Geordie's byre.
The cocks an' hens began to craw
When Biddy astride the soo they saw
The postie's shelty ran awa'
At the muckin' o' Geordie's byre. (Chorus)
O a hunder' years are passed an mair
Whaur Sprottie's wis, the hill is bare;
The croft's awa', sae ye'll see nae mair
At the muckin' o' Geordie's byre.
His folks a' deid an' awa' lang syne
In case his memory we should tyne,
Whistle this tune tae keep ye in min'
At the muckin' o' Geordie's byre. (Chorus)
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Sailing To Philadelphia
[From Mark Knopfler's "Sailing To Philadelphia"]
I Am Jeremiah Dixon
I Am A Geordie Boy
A Glass Of Wine With You, Sir
And The Ladies I'll Enjoy
All Durham And Northumberland
Is Measured Up By My Own Hand
It Was My Fate From Birth
To Make My Mark Upon The Earth...
He Calls Me Charlie Mason
A Stargazer Am I
It Seems That I Was Born
To Chart The Evening Sky
They'd Cut Me Out For Baking Bread
But I Had Other Dreams Instead
This Baker's Boy From The West Country
Would Join The Royal Society...
We Are Sailing To Philadelphia
A World Away From The Coaly Tyne
Sailing To Philadelphia
To Draw The Line
The Mason-Dixon Line
Now You're A Good Surveyor, Dixon
But I Swear You'll Make Me Mad
The West Will Kill Us Both
You Gullible Geordie Lad
You Talk Of Liberty
How Can America Be Free
A Geordie And A Baker's Boy
In The Forests Of The Iroquois...
Now Hold Your Head Up, Mason
See America Lies There
The Morning Tide Has Raised
The Capes Of Delaware
Gome Up And Feel The Sun
A New Morning Is Begun
Another Day Will Make It Clear
Why Your Stars Should Guide Us Here...
We Are Sailing To Philadelphia
A World Away From The Coaly Tyne
Sailing To Philadelphia
To Draw The Line
The Mason-Dixon Line
song performed by by James Taylor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There was a coach driver called Ken,
Took us to Newquay and back hyem,
We all rocked with laughter
At his Geordie banter,
That witty coach driver called Ken.
quote by by Edith Oram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bollock Naked
'Bollock naked' is a phrase
That's calculated to amaze
Those ignorant of Geordie ways.
'Bollock naked' really means
You're standing there
Without your jeans
Or underwear,
Without a stitch, in fact.
Man or woman, parent, child,
You're 'bollock naked',
Running wild!
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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This 'n' That
Sometimes, I think about this ‘n’ that,
resurrecting damaged memories,
just to torture my soul.
Sometimes, when lying in bed,
I think about this ‘n’ that,
I doze off to unconsciousness.
Sometimes, this ‘n’ that gets to me,
disemboweling my being,
a cruel unusual punishment.
Sometimes, this ‘n’ that
awakens my demons,
painstakingly I exorcise my fallen angels.
Sometimes, I think about this ‘n’ that,
especially things that don’t matter anymore,
to torture my soul.
Copyright © George Ross 2011
poem by Geordie Ross
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Unorganised Regimentation
(for Brian Miller Cumbernauld new town artist where I come from)
They stand upright
cast totem poles,
Banners large and stretched,
Standing stone sculptures
rounds and squares,
abstract silhouettes,
dimensions three or four
coloured against concrete grey…,
This unorganised regimentation
This unequivocal expressionism
Copyright © George Ross 2011
poem by Geordie Ross
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Snide
Glory, Glory, Glory
Spending day in house
Spending day in house
May you go to that cattle byre
Where men spend day
I will burn your tail
Husband of my mother
The wife sings innuendo
Beauty, Beauty, Beauty
I stop going there to that byre
I stop completely
Because of injustice going on in kitchen
I stop going there to monitor them myself
What goes on when serving food
The husband sings innuendo
poem by David Aoloch Bion
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Bird that dances by tail
Swallow.the bird that goes into cattle byre
And no bird that goes into cattle byre
Wow white black bull
The bird that goes into cattle byre
Swallow, the bird that crosses ocean
And no bird crosses ocean
Wow whhite black bull
The bird that crosses ocean
Swallow, the bird that dances by tail
And no bird that dances by tail
Wow white black bull
The bird that dances by tail
poem by David Aoloch Bion
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tea Time Choice
Should I have a biscuit
to help me drink my tea
A digestive or a custard cream
or a ginger nut for me.
I could even have a carmel log
even a chocolate ginger
My tea needs something dipped in it
How about a chocolate finger
Maybe it could be something Nice
Something crunchy I can swallow
I need to compliment my tea
I could try a coconut mallow
Give me that pack of rich teas
Wait! tea and shortbread they go well
I may consider gypsy creams
Im told they taste real swell
Wait a minute, I know what,
I’ll have something quite suggestive
But It’ll melt upon your hands and face
that chocolate digestive
This is becoming to stressful
As my tea is in its cup
I’ll have a bit of toast instead
Cause I canny make my mind up.
Copyright © George Ross 2011
poem by Geordie Ross
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Cannibal and Dhieu
Lion cannibal came
With three cubs
In evening to Dhieu home
Hide in shade of cattle byre
When wife took cooked bean to
Dhieu In byre
Cannibal attacked her
She poured down bean
She cried
Dhieu came out of byre
Cannibal attacked him too
Within three minutes Dhieu and
His wife were dead
Villagers rushed in
Cannibal and three cubs ran away
In dry season
Rainmaker was called in
To make rain
Rain poured that night
In morning, villagers moved out
In forest for big hunt for cannibal
Villagers moved for three hours in
Forest until they found
Claw prints in mud of cannibal and cubs
They followed claw prints for four hours
In hedge, found lion and cubs
Men killed cubs
But father lion ran away
Villagers chased him for six hours
Lion went got tired on Nyangdit pond
Entered hedge
Men surrounded Nyangdit
Moved in to kill lion
They never found him
Searched hedge on pond
And never found any traces
Of cannibal lion
When men about to leave
One man saw big non poisonous
Ghoor snake, He said ‘’ isn’t lion
that change Like this’’ and
he hit one eye of
Ghoor snake off
Snake eye watered down
But he didn’t kill snake
Because it non poison’s
In fact, it’s lion that metamorphosed
In snake
After men left lion metamorphosed
Back to lion and left for Juba town
When he saw men from Dhieu’s village
He sang
‘’ I destroy home of Dhieu by bit cunning
I attack wife, she poured down bean
I ate wife and husband by by bit cunning’’
When people put down ears to hear
He changed song and sang
‘’ my triplets remained at Nyangdit pond
My brothers
I am childless’’
poem by David Aoloch Bion
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bring a cow into the hall and she'll run the byre.
Bring a Cow to the Hall, and she will run to the byre again.
Auld Lang Syne
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne ?
CHORUS
For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
And surely ye’ll be your pint-stoup !
and surely I’ll be mine !
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
CHORUS
We twa hae run about the braes,
and pou’d the gowans fine ;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,
sin’ auld lang syne.
CHORUS
We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,
frae morning sun till dine ;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
sin’ auld lang syne.
CHORUS
And there’s a hand my trusty fiere !
and gies a hand o’ thine !
And we’ll tak a right gude-willie waught,
for auld lang syne.
CHORUS
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Awaiting my next posting
I hear a distant bugle calling
bravely as the twilights falling
The plaintive notes of the last post,
when I’m alone affect me most.
As I remember those who fell
in defence of liberty.
Where they lie now no man can
but I remember vividly
Lofty, only five foot two
and his best mate big Geordie Green.
Taff Thomas and Dai Williams too.
I wonder what they might have been
Had death not claimed them one and all
selected them quite randomly.
Each time I hear that bugle call
a sense of guilt falls over me.
Why was I chosen to survive
to wed and raise a family.
When they gave all they had to give
each death a separate tragedy.
But I live on. I know not why
death chose my friends, left me behind.
The only thing I know is I
Must keep their memories in mind.
The plaintive notes the bugler plays
that drift across the fields to me
Will mark too, the end of my days
when I rejoin their company.
7-Feb-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Haggis Of Private McPhee
"Hae ye heard whit ma auld mither's postit tae me?
It fair maks me hamesick," says Private McPhee.
"And whit did she send ye?" says Private McPhun,
As he cockit his rifle and bleezed at a Hun.
"A haggis! A Haggis!" says Private McPhee;
"The brawest big haggis I ever did see.
And think! it's the morn when fond memory turns
Tae haggis and whuskey--the Birthday o' Burns.
We maun find a dram; then we'll ca' in the rest
O' the lads, and we'll hae a Burns' Nicht wi' the best."
"Be ready at sundoon," snapped Sergeant McCole;
"I want you two men for the List'nin' Patrol."
Then Private McPhee looked at Private McPhun:
"I'm thinkin', ma lad, we're confoundedly done."
Then Private McPhun looked at Private McPhee:
"I'm thinkin' auld chap, it's a' aff wi' oor spree."
But up spoke their crony, wee Wullie McNair:
"Jist lea' yer braw haggis for me tae prepare;
And as for the dram, if I search the camp roun',
We maun hae a drappie tae jist haud it doon.
Sae rin, lads, and think, though the nicht it be black,
O' the haggis that's waitin' ye when ye get back."
My! but it wis waesome on Naebuddy's Land,
And the deid they were rottin' on every hand.
And the rockets like corpse candles hauntit the sky,
And the winds o' destruction went shudderin' by.
There wis skelpin' o' bullets and skirlin' o' shells,
And breengin' o' bombs and a thoosand death-knells;
But cooryin' doon in a Jack Johnson hole
Little fashed the twa men o' the List'nin' Patrol.
For sweeter than honey and bricht as a gem
Wis the thocht o' the haggis that waitit for them.
Yet alas! in oor moments o' sunniest cheer
Calamity's aften maist cruelly near.
And while the twa talked o' their puddin' divine
The Boches below them were howkin' a mine.
And while the twa cracked o' the feast they would hae,
The fuse it wis burnin' and burnin' away.
Then sudden a roar like the thunner o' doom,
A hell-leap o' flame . . . then the wheesht o' the tomb.
"Haw, Jock! Are ye hurtit?" says Private McPhun.
"Ay, Geordie, they've got me; I'm fearin' I'm done.
It's ma leg; I'm jist thinkin' it's aff at the knee;
Ye'd best gang and leave me," says Private McPhee.
"Oh leave ye I wunna," says Private McPhun;
"And leave ye I canna, for though I micht run,
It's no faur I wud gang, it's no muckle I'd see:
I'm blindit, and that's whit's the maitter wi' me."
Then Private McPhee sadly shakit his heid:
"If we bide here for lang, we'll be bidin' for deid.
And yet, Geordie lad, I could gang weel content
If I'd tasted that haggis ma auld mither sent."
"That's droll," says McPhun; "ye've jist speakit ma mind.
Oh I ken it's a terrible thing tae be blind;
And yet it's no that that embitters ma lot--
It's missin' that braw muckle haggis ye've got."
For a while they were silent; then up once again
Spoke Private McPhee, though he whussilt wi' pain:
"And why should we miss it? Between you and me
We've legs for tae run, and we've eyes for tae see.
You lend me your shanks and I'll lend you ma sicht,
And we'll baith hae a kyte-fu' o' haggis the nicht."
Oh the sky it wis dourlike and dreepin' a wee,
When Private McPhun gruppit Private McPhee.
Oh the glaur it wis fylin' and crieshin' the grun',
When Private McPhee guidit Private McPhun.
"Keep clear o' them corpses--they're maybe no deid!
Haud on! There's a big muckle crater aheid.
Look oot! There's a sap; we'll be haein' a coup.
A staur-shell! For Godsake! Doun, lad, on yer daup.
Bear aff tae yer richt. . . . Aw yer jist daein' fine:
Before the nicht's feenished on haggis we'll dine."
There wis death and destruction on every hand;
There wis havoc and horror on Naebuddy's Land.
And the shells bickered doun wi' a crump and a glare,
And the hameless wee bullets were dingin' the air.
Yet on they went staggerin', cooryin' doun
When the stutter and cluck o' a Maxim crept roun'.
And the legs o' McPhun they were sturdy and stoot,
And McPhee on his back kept a bonnie look-oot.
"On, on, ma brave lad! We're no faur frae the goal;
I can hear the braw sweerin' o' Sergeant McCole."
But strength has its leemit, and Private McPhun,
Wi' a sab and a curse fell his length on the grun'.
Then Private McPhee shoutit doon in his ear:
"Jist think o' the haggis! I smell it from here.
It's gushin' wi' juice, it's embaumin' the air;
It's steamin' for us, and we're--jist--aboot--there."
Then Private McPhun answers: "Dommit, auld chap!
For the sake o' that haggis I'll gang till I drap."
And he gets on his feet wi' a heave and a strain,
And onward he staggers in passion and pain.
And the flare and the glare and the fury increase,
Till you'd think they'd jist taken a' hell on a lease.
And on they go reelin' in peetifu' plight,
And someone is shoutin' away on their right;
And someone is runnin', and noo they can hear
A sound like a prayer and a sound like a cheer;
And swift through the crash and the flash and the din,
The lads o' the Hielands are bringin' them in.
"They're baith sairly woundit, but is it no droll
Hoo they rave aboot haggis?" says Sergeant McCole.
When hirplin alang comes wee Wullie McNair,
And they a' wonnert why he wis greetin' sae sair.
And he says: "I'd jist liftit it oot o' the pot,
And there it lay steamin' and savoury hot,
When sudden I dooked at the fleech o' a shell,
And it--dropped on the haggis and dinged it tae hell."
And oh but the lads were fair taken aback;
Then sudden the order wis passed tae attack,
And up from the trenches like lions they leapt,
And on through the nicht like a torrent they swept.
On, on, wi' their bayonets thirstin' before!
On, on tae the foe wi' a rush and a roar!
And wild to the welkin their battle-cry rang,
And doon on the Boches like tigers they sprang:
And there wisna a man but had death in his ee,
For he thocht o' the haggis o' Private McPhee.
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Liberty
When liberty is headlong girl
And runs her roads and wends her ways
Liberty will shriek and whirl
Her showery torch to see it blaze.
When liberty is wedded wife
And keeps the barn and counts the byre
Liberty amends her life.
She drowns her torch for fear of fire.
poem by Archibald MacLeish
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Jolly Beggar II
THERE was a jolly beggar, and a begging he was bound,
And he took up his quarters into a landart town.
Fa la la, etc.
He wad neither ly in barn, nor yet wad he in byre,
But in ahint the ha-door, or else afore the fire.
The beggar’s bed was made at een wi good clean straw and hay,
And in ahint the ha-door, and there the beggar lay.
raise the goodman’s dochter, and for to bar the door,
And there she saw the beggar standin i the floor.
He took the lassie in his arms and to the bed he ran,
‘O hooly, hooly wi me, sir! ye’ll waken our goodman.’
The beggar was a cunnin loon, and neer a word he spake
Until he got his turn done, syne he began to crack.
‘Is there ony dogs into this town? maiden, tell me true.’
‘And what wad ye do wi them, my hinny and my dow?’
‘They’ll rive a’ my mealpocks, and do me meikle wrang.’
‘O dool for the doing o’t! are ye the poor man?’
Then she took up the mealpocks and flang them oer the wa:
‘The d--l gae wi the mealpocks, my maidenhead and a’!
‘I took ye for some gentleman, at least the Larid of Brodie;
O dool for the doing o’t! are ye the poor bodie?’
took the lassie in his arms and gae her kisses three,
And four-and-twenty hunder merk to pay the nurice-fee.
He took a horn frae his side and blew baith loud and shrill,
And four-and-twenty belted knights came skipping oer the hill.
And he took out his little knife, loot a’ his duddies fa,
And he was the brawest gentleman that was amang them a’.
The beggar was a cliver loon and he lap shoulder height:
‘O ay for sicken quarters as I gat yesternight!’
poem by Anonymous Olde English
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Trucker
IF YOU want a game to tame you and to take your measure in,
Try a week or two of trucking in a mine
Where the rails are never level for a half-a-minute’s spin,
And the curves are short and sharp along the line.
Try the feverish bottom level, down five hundred feet of shaft,
Where the atmosphere is like a second suit,
When the wash is full of water, and you’ve got to run the graft,
For there’s forty ton of gravel in the shoot.
‘Want a job o’ truckin’, dost tha?’ says the boss, old Geordie Rist,
Shift’s a trucker short, ma lad, but aw don’ know—
Can’st tha do th’ work, though, think’st tha? Art a pretty decent fist?
Eh, well, damme! thoo can try it; go below.’
So the cage is manned, the knocker clangs and clatters on the brace,
The engine draws a deep, defiant breath
To inflate her lungs of iron; and in silence, face to face,
We drop into the darkness deep as death.
Then a fairy sense of lightness and of floating on the night,
A sudden glare, and Number Three is passed;
Soon a sound of warring waters and another rush of light—
‘All clear!’ The up-trip never seems so fast.
It is rough upon the tyro, that first tussle with the trucks—
The wretched four, with worn, three-cornered wheels
That are sure to fall to his lot and to floor him if his pluck’s
Not true when mates are grinding at his heels.
Then the struggle at the incline, and the deuced ticklish squeeze
At the curves where strength alone not all avails,
And the floundering in the mullock, and the badly-broken knees
Before he learns to run upon the rails.
But it’s like all other grafting, and the man that has the grit
Won’t tucker out with one back-racking shift;
When he’s sweated to condition, with his muscles firm and fit,
He’ll disdain to stick at seven trucks of drift.
He can swarm around the pinches with a scramble and a dash,
And negotiate the inclines just as pat;
And the sheets of iron rattle and the waters surge and splash
As he shoots the 'full ’uns' in along the plat.
When the empties wind and clatter down the drive and through the dark—
As ‘blowing’ spells those backward journeys serve—
On before, deep set in darkness, glints and glows a feeble spark,
The candle burning dimly at the curve.
After cribs are polished off, and when the smoke begins to rise
And cling about the caps and in the cracks,
There’s a passing satisfaction in the patriarchal lies
Of the Geordie pioneers and Cousin Jacks—
Lanky Steve’s unwritten stories of the fun of Fifty-two,
Or the dashing days at Donkey Woman’s Flat,
Of traps, and beaks, and heavy yields, and pugilists put through,
And lifting up the flag at Ballarat.
Yes, the truckers’ toil is rather heavy grafting as a rule—
Much heavier than the wages, well I know;
But the life’s not full of trouble, and the fellow is a fool
Who cannot find some pleasure down below.
poem by Edward George Dyson
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The Cow
THIS is a rune I ravelled in the still,
Arrogant stare of an Australian cow—
‘These prankt intruders of the hornless brow,
Puffed up with strange illusions of their skill
To fence, to milk, to fatten and to kill,
Once worshipped me with temple, rite and vow,
Crowned me with stars, and bade rapt millions bow
Before what abject guess they called my will!
‘To-day, this flunkey of my midden, Man,
Throws child-oblations in my milking byre,
Stifles in slums to spare me lordly fields,
Flatters with spotless consorts my desire,
And for a pail of cream his birth-right yields,
As once in Egypt, Hellas, Ind, Iran!’
poem by Bernard O'Dowd
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To Charles Baxter
OUR Johnie's deid. The mair's the pity!
He's deid, an' deid o' Aqua-vitae.
O Embro', you're a shrunken city,
Noo Johnie's deid!
Tak hands, an' sing a burial ditty
Ower Johnie's heid.
To see him was baith drink an' meat,
Gaun linkin' glegly up the street.
He but to rin or tak a seat,
The wee bit body!
Bein' aye unsicken on his feet
Wi' whusky toddy.
To be aye tosh was Johnie's whim,
There's nane was better teut than him,
Though whiles his gravit-knot wad clim'
Ahint his ear,
An' whiles he'd buttons oot or in
The less ae mair.
His hair a' lang about his bree,
His tap-lip lang by inches three -
A slockened sort 'mon,' to pree
A' sensuality -
A droutly glint was in his e'e
An' personality.
An' day an' nicht, frae daw to daw,
Dink an' perjink an' doucely braw,
Wi' a kind o' Gospel ower a',
May or October,
Like Peden, followin' the Law
An' no that sober.
Whusky an' he were pack thegether.
Whate'er the hour, whate'er the weather,
John kept himsel' wi' mistened leather
An' kindled spunk.
Wi' him, there was nae askin' whether -
John was aye drunk.
The auncient heroes gash an' bauld
In the uncanny days of auld,
The task ance fo(u)nd to which th'were called,
Stack stenchly to it.
His life sic noble lives recalled,
Little's he knew it.
Single an' straucht, he went his way.
He kept the faith an' played the play.
Whusky an' he were man an' may
Whate'er betided.
Bonny in life - in death - this twae
Were no' divided.
An' wow! but John was unco sport.
Whiles he wad smile about the Court
Malvolio-like - whiles snore an' snort
Was heard afar.
The idle winter lads' resort
Was aye John's bar.
What's merely humorous or bonny
The Worl' regairds wi' cauld astony.
Drunk men tak' aye mair place than ony;
An' sae, ye see,
The gate was aye ower thrang for Johnie -
Or you an' me.
John micht hae jingled cap an' bells,
Been a braw fule in silks an' pells,
In ane o' the auld worl's canty hells
Paris or Sodom.
I wadnae had him naething else
But Johnie Adam.
He suffered - as have a' that wan
Eternal memory frae man,
Since e'er the weary worl' began -
Mister or Madam,
Keats or Scots Burns, the Spanish Don
Or Johnie Adam.
We leuch, an' Johnie deid. An' fegs!
Hoo he had keept his stoiterin' legs
Sae lang's he did's a fact that begs
An explanation.
He stachers fifty years - syne plegs
To's destination.
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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The Wife Of Usher's Well
There lived a wife at Usher's Well,
And a wealthy wife was she;
She had three stout and stalwart sons,
And sent them oer the sea,
They hadna been a week from her,
A week but barely ane,
When word came to the carline wife
That her three sons were gane.
They hadna been a week from her,
A week but barely three,
Whan word came to the carlin wife
That her sons she'd never see.
'I wish the wind may never cease,
Nor fashes in the flood,
Till my three sons come hame to me,
In earthly flesh and blood!'
It fell about the Martinmass,
Whan nights are lang and mirk,
The carline wife's three sons came hame,
And their hats were o the birk.
It neither grew in syke nor ditch,
Nor yet in ony sheugh;
But at the gates o Paradise
That birk grew fair eneugh.
* * * * *
'Blow up the fire, my maidens!
Bring water from the well;
For a' my house shall feast this night,
Since my three sons are well.'
And she has made to them a bed,
She's made it large and wide;
And she's taen her mantle her about,
Sat down at the bedside.
* * * * *
Up then crew the red, red cock,
And up and crew the gray;
The eldest to the youngest said,
''Tis time we were away.'
The cock he hadna crawd but once,
And clapp'd his wings at a',
Whan the youngest to the eldest said,
'Brother, we must awa.
'The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,
The channerin worm doth chide;
Gin we be mist out o our place,
A sair pain we maun bide.
'Fare ye weel, my mother dear!
Fareweel to barn and byre!
And fare ye weel, the bonny lass
That kindles my mother's fire!'
poem by Andrew Lang
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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