The Book of Scottish Song/This is the night

This is the night.

[Air, "Low down he's in the broom."]

This is the night my Johnny set,
⁠And promised to be here;
O, what can stay his longing step
⁠He's fickle grown, I fear.
Wae worth this wheel! 'twill no rin roun',
⁠Nae mair this night I'll spin:
But count each minute wi' a sigh,
⁠Till Johnny he steal in.

How snug that canty fire it burns,
⁠For twa to sit beside;
And there fu' oft my Johnny sat,
⁠And I my blushes hid.
My father how he snugly snores,
⁠My mother's fast asleep;
He promised oft, but, oh! I fear,
⁠His word he will not keep.

What can it be keeps him frae me?
⁠The road it's no sae lang;
And frost and snaw is nought ava,
⁠If fo'k were fain to gang.
Some ither lass wi' bonnier face,
⁠Has caught his wandering e'e;
Than thole their jeers at kirk an' fair,
⁠Oh! sooner let me dee.

O! if we lasses could but gang
⁠And woo the lads we like,
I'd run to thee, my Johnny dear
⁠If e'er stop at bog or dyke;
But custom's such a powerfu' thing
⁠Men aye their will maun ha'e,
While mony a bonnie lassie sits,
⁠And mourns from day to day.

But wheesht! I hear my Johnny's foot;
⁠That's just his very clog;
He snecks the fa'-yett saftly too—
⁠O hang that colly dog!
And now for a' thae sugar'd words,
⁠And kisses not a few;
O, but this world's a Paradise,
⁠When lovers they prove true.

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