An naething bides but what our he'rts remember--
Maggie, ye'll na forget?




THE WHUSTLIN' LAD


There's a wind comes doon frae the braes when the licht is spreadin'
Chilly an' grey,
An' the auld cock craws at the yett o' the muirland steadin'
Cryin' on day;
The hoose lies sound an' the sma' mune's deein' an' weary
Watchin' her lane,
The shadows creep by the dyke an' the time seems eerie,
But the lad i' the fields he is whustlin' cheery, cheery,
'Yont i' the rain.

My mither stirs as she wauks wi' her twa een blinkin',
Bedded she'll bide,
For foo can an auld wife ken what a lassie's thinkin'
Close at her side?
Mither, lie still, for ye're needin' a rest fu' sairly,
Weary an' worn,
Mither, I'll rise, an' ye ken I'll be warkin' fairly--
An' I dinna ken _wha_ can be whustlin', whustlin', aerly,
Lang or it's morn!

Gin ye hear a sound like the sneck o' the backdoor turnin',