Bill o'th' Hoylus End - Revised Edition of Poems

Now them wur the days o’ grim boggards and witches,
When Will-o’-the-wisp cud be seen in the swamp,
But nah are the days o’ cheating fer riches,
An’ a poor honest man is classed wi’ a scamp.
Yes, them wur the days at mi mind worrant weary;
O them wur the days aw knew no despair;
O give me the time o’ the boggard an’ fairy,
Wi’ t’ furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver aw ware.

Ah! them wur the days aw sall allus remember,
Sud aw just as owd as Mathusalah last;
Them wur mi March days, but nah it’s September:
Ne’er to return again – them days are past.
But a time aw remember aboon onny other,
Aw kneeled o’ mi knees an’ sed the Lord’s Prayer;
Aw sed “God bless mi father, an’ God bless mi mother,”
It furst Pair o’ Briches at ivver aw ware.

O welcome, lovely summer,
Wi’ thi golden days so long,
When the throstle and the blackbird
Do charm us wi’ ther song;
When the lark in early morning
Takes his aerial flight;
An’ the humming bat an’ buzzard
Frolic in the night.

O! welcome, lovely summer,
With her rainbow’s lovely form;
Her thunner an’ her leetnin’,
An’ her grandeur in the storm:
With her sunshine an’ her shower,
An’ her whirlin’ of the dust,
An’ the maiden with her flagon,
To sleck the mower’s thirst.

O! welcome, lovely summer,
When the woods wi’ music ring,
An’ the bees so heavy laden,
To their hives their treasures bring:
When we seek some shady bower,
Or some lovely little dell,
Or, bivock in the sunshine,
Besides some cooling well.

O! welcome, lovely summer,
With her roses in full bloom;
When the cowslaps an’ the laalek
Deck the cottage home;
When the cherry an’ the berry
Give a grandeur to the charm;
And the clover and the haycock
Scent the little farm.

O! welcome, lovely summer,
Wi’ the partridge on the wing;
When the tewit an’ the moorgam,
Up fra the heather spring,
From the crowber an’ the billber,
An’ the bracken an’ the whin;
As from the noisy tadpole,
We hear the crackin’ din.
O! welcome, lovely summer.

Go bring that tuther whisky in,
An’ put no watter to it;
Fur I mun drink a bumper off,
To Scotland’s darlin’ poet.

It’s just one hunderd year to-day,
This Jenewarry morn,
Sin’ in a lowly cot i’ Kyle,
A rustic bard wur born.

He kittled up his muirland harp,
To ivvery rustic scene;
An’ sung the ways o’ honest men,
His Davey an’ his Jean.

There wur nivver a bonny flaar that grew
Bud what he could admire;
There wur nivver lovely hill or dale
That suited not his lyre.

At last owd Coilia sed enough,
Mi bardy thah did sing,
Then gently tuke his muirland harp,
And brack it ivvery string.

An’ bindin’ up the holly wreath,
Wi’ all its berries red,
Shoo placed it on his noble brow,
An’ pensively shoo said: —

“So long as Willies brew ther malt,
An’ Robs and Allans spree;
Mi Burns’s songs an’ Burns’s name,
Remember’d they shall be.”

Ligging here deead, mi poor Ann Lavina,
Ligging alone, mi own darling child,
Just thi white hands crost on thi bosom,
Wi’ features so tranquil, so calm, and so mild.

Ligging here deead, so white an’ so bonny,
Hidding them eyes that oft gazed on mine;
Asking for summat withaht ever speaking,
Asking thi father to say tha wur fine.

Ligging here deead, the child that so lov’d me,
At fane wod ha’ hidden mi faults if shoo could;
Wal thi wretch of a father despairin’ stands ower tha,
Wal remorse and frenzy are freezin’ his blood.

Ligging here deead, i’ thi shroud an thi coffin,
Ligging alone in this poor wretched room;
Just thi white hands crossed ower thi bosom,
Waiting for t’angels to carry tha home.

Thy kiss is sweet, thy words are kind,
Thy love is all to me;
Aw couldn’t in a palace find
A lass more true ner thee:
An’ if aw wor the Persian Shah,
An’ thee mi Lovely Queen,
The grandest diamond i’ mi Crown
Wor t’ lass o’ Newsholme Dean.

The lady gay may heed tha not,
An’ passing by may sneer;
The upstart squire’s dowters laugh,
When thou, my love, art near;
But if all ther shinin’ soverins
War wared o’ sattens green,
They mightn’t be as handsome then
As t’ Lass o’ Newsholme Dean.

When yellow autumn’s lustre shines,
An’ hangs her golden ear,
An’ nature’s voice fra every bush
Is singing sweet and clear,
’Neath some white thorn to song unknown,
To mortal never seen,
’Tis there with thee I fain wad be,
Mi Lass o’ Newsholme Dean.

Od drat, who cares fur kings or queens,
Mix’d in a nation’s broil,
They nivver benefit the poor —
The poor mun ollas toil.
An’ thou gilded spectre, royalty,
That dazzles folks’s een,
Is nowt to me when I’m wi thee,
Sweet Lass o’ Newsholme Dean.

High fra the summit o’ yon’ crag,
I view yon’ smooky town,
Where forten she has deigned to smile
On monny a simple clown:
Though free fra want, they’re free fra brains;
An’ yet no happier I ween,
Than this old farmer’s wife an’ hens,
Aw saw i’ Newsholme Dean.

There was a bonny Lassie once
Sitting by a well —
But what this bonny Lassie thought
I cannot, cannot tell —
When by there went a cavalier
Well known as Willie Wright,
Just in full marching order,
His armour shining bright.