Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast,
A blast baith snell an’ keen,
An’ the washin’ o’ the clarty wife
Sailed aff the washin’ green,
An’ it landit on the midden-heid,
Whaur nae washin’ ought to be-
An’ says auld jock Smairt, wha was passin’ wi’ his cairt: 
“Weel, hame’s aye hame,” says he.

Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast,
An’ it gart the deid leaves loup,
An’ it set the shoothers heicher yet
O’ the gaithrin’ at the roup;
An’ stour filled the een o’ the unctioneer,
Till the cratur’ couldna see;
An’ says auld Jock Smairt, wha was passin’ wi’ his cairt: 
“Turn aboot’s fair play,” says he.

Cauld blew the blast frae East to Wast,
An’ the rein catched the grey mear’s tail,
An’ her heels to save her hin’er en’
Gaed lashin’ like a flail. 
An’ the haill apotheck lay in spails,
As the grey mear warsled free;
An’ when auld Jock Smairt saw the fashion o’ his cairt: 
“Wha’s seekin’ ony spunks?” says he.

THE NICHT THAT THE BAIRNIE CAM’ HAME.

I was gaun to my supper richt hungert an’ tired,
A’ day I’d been hard at the pleugh;
The snaw wi’ the dark’nin’ was fast dingin’ on,
An’ the win’ had a coorse kin’ o’ sough. 
’Twas a cheery like sicht as the bonny fire-licht
Gar’t the winnock play flicker wi’ flame;
But my supper was “Aff for the doctor at aince!”
That nicht that the bairnie cam’ hame.

Noo, I kent there was somethin’ o’ that sort to be,
An’ I’d had my ain thochts, tae, aboot it;
Sae when my gude-mither had tel’t me to flee,
Fegs, it wisna my pairt for to doot it. 
Wi’ a new pair o’ buits that was pinchin’ like sin,
In a mile I was hirplin’ deid lame;
‘Twas the warst nicht o’ a’ that I ever pit in,
That nicht that the bairnie cam’ hame.

I’d a gude seeven mile o’ a fecht wi’ the snaw,
An the road was near smoort oot wi’ drift;
While the maister at market had got on the ba’,
Sae I’d tint my ae chance o’ a lift. 
When I passed the auld inn as I cam’ owre the hill,
Although I was mebbe to blame,
I bude to gang in-bye an’ swallow a gill,
That nicht that the bairnie cam’ hame.

“Gude be thankit!” says I, at the doctor’s front door,
As I pu’d like mischeef at the bell;
But my he’rt gae a dunt at the story that runt
O’ a hoose-keeper body’d to tell. 
The man wasna in?  He was at the big hoose? 
A sick dwam cam’ richt owre my wame. 
Hoo the deevil was I to get haud o’ him noo,
That nicht that the bairnie cam’ hame?

The doctor was spendin’ the nicht at the laird’s,
For the leddy, ye see, was expeckin’;
A feckless bit cratur, weel-meanin’ an’ a’,
Though she ne’er got ayont the doo’s cleckin’. 
It’s them that should hae them that hinna eneugh,
Fegs, lads, it’s a damnable shame! 
Here’s me wi’ a dizzen, and aye at the pleugh
Sin’ that nicht that the bairnie cam’ hame!