13
My Sunday’s shoon they maun gae on,
my hose o’ pearl blue,
It’s n’ to please my ain goodman,
for he’s baith leel and true,
for there’s nae luck, &c.
Sae true’s his words, sae smooth’s his speech,
his breath’s like caller air,
His very foot has music in’t.
when he comes up the stair.
And will I see his face again?
and will I hear him speak?
I’m downright dizzy wi’ the thought;
In troth I’m like to greet,
for there’s nae luck, &c.
The cauld blasts of the winter wind,
that thrilled thro’ my heart.
They’re a’ blawn by, I hae him safe,
till death we’ll never part;
But what puts parting in my head,
It may be far away;
The present moment is our ain,
the neist we never saw.
for there’s nae luck, &c.
AND SAE WILL WE YET.
Sit ye down, my cronies, and gie me your crack.
Let the win’ lake the care o’ this life on its back
Our hearts to despondency we never will submit,
For we’ve aye been provided for, and sae will we
yet.
And sae will we yet, &c.
