TAM I’ THE KIRK

O Jean, my Jean, when the bell ca’s the congregation
Owre valley an’ hill wi’ the ding frae its iron mou’,
When a’body’s thochts is set on his ain salvation,
  Mine’s set on you.

There’s a reid rose lies on the Buik o’ the Word ’afore ye
That was growin’ braw on its bush at the keek o’ day,
But the lad that pu’d yon flower i’ the mornin’s glory,
  He canna pray.

He canna pray; but there’s nane i’ the kirk will heed him
Whaur he sits sae still his lane at the side o’ the wa,
For nane but the reid rose kens what my lassie gie’d him—­
  It an’ us twa!

He canna sing for the sang that his ain he’rt raises,
He canna see for the mist that’s ’afore his een,
An a voice drouns the hale o’ the psalms an’ the paraphrases,
  Cryin’ “Jean, Jean, Jean!”

THE HOWE O’ THE MEARNS

Laddie, my lad, when ye gang at the tail o’ the plough
  An’ the days draw in,
When the burnin’ yellow’s awa’ that was aince a-lowe
  On the braes o’ whin,
Do ye mind o’ me that’s deaved wi’ the wearyfu’ south
  An’ it’s puir concairns
While the weepies fade on the knowes at the river’s mouth
  In the Howe o’ the Mearns?

There was nae twa lads frae the Grampians doon to the Tay
  That could best us twa;
At bothie or dance, or the field on a fitba’ day,
  We could sort them a’;
An’ at courtin’-time when the stars keeked doon on the glen
  An’ its theek o’ fairns,
It was you an’ me got the pick o’ the basket then
  In the Howe o’ the Mearns.

London is fine, an’ for ilk o’ the lasses at hame
  There’ll be saxty here,
But the springtime comes an’ the hairst—­an it’s aye the same
  Through the changefu year. 
O, a lad thinks lang o’ hame ere he thinks his fill
  As his breid he airns—­
An’ they’re thrashin’ noo at the white fairm up on the hill
  In the Howe o’ the Mearns.

Gin I mind mysel’ an’ toil for the lave o’ my days
  While I’ve een to see,
When I’m auld an’ done wi’ the fash o’ their English ways
  I’ll come hame to dee;
For the lad dreams aye o’ the prize that the man’ll get,
  But he lives an’ lairns,
An’ it’s far, far ’ayont him still—­but it’s farther yet
  To the Howe o’ the Mearns.

Laddie, my lad, when the hair is white on yer pow
  An’ the work’s put past,
When yer hand’s owre auld an’ heavy to haud the plough
  I’ll win hame at last,
An we’ll bide our time on the knowes whaur the broom stands braw
  An’ we played as bairns,
Till the last lang gloamin’ shall creep on us baith an’ fa’
  On the Howe o’ the Mearns.

THE LANG ROAD