The sky is keen wi’ dancin’ stars in plenty,
  The New Year frost is strang;
But, O my lass! because the Auld Year kent ye
  I’m sweir to let it gang!

But time drives forrit; and on ilk December
  There waits a New Year yet,
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’,
  Fash na for it;
It’s just the crack i’ the lum o’ the green wood burnin’,
  Ill to be lit;
Gin ye hear a step, it’s the auld mear loose i’ the stable
  Stampin’ the strae,
Or mysel’ that’s settin’ the parritch-spunes on the table,
Sae turn ye aboot an’ sleep, mither, sleep while ye’re able,
  Rest while ye may.

Up at the steadin’ the trail o’ the mist has liftit
  Clear frae the grund,
Mither breathes saft an’ her face to the wa’ she’s shiftit—­
  Aye, but she’s sound! 
Lad, ye may come, for there’s nane but mysel’ will hear ye
  Oot by the stair,
But whustle you on an’ I winna hae need to fear ye,
For, laddie, the lips that keep whustlin’, whustlin’ cheery
  Canna dae mair!

HOGMANAY

(To A pipe tune)

O, it’s fine when the New and the Auld Year meet,
An’ the lads gang roarin’ i’ the lichtit street,
An’ there’s me and there’s Alick an’ the miller’s loon,
An’ Geordie that’s the piper oot o’ Forfar toon. 
    Geordie Faa!  Geordie Faa! 
Up wi’ the chanter, lad, an’ gie’s a blaw! 
For we’ll step to the tune while we’ve feet in till oor shune,
Tho’ the bailies an’ the provost be to sort us a’!

We’ve three bonnie bottles, but the third ane’s toom,
Gin’ the road ran whisky, it’s mysel’ wad soom! 
But we’ll stan’ while we can, an’ be dancin’ while we may,
For there’s twa we hae to finish, an’ it’s Hogmanay. 
    Geordie Faa!  Geordie Faa! 
There’s an auld carle glow’rin’ oot ahint yon wa’,
But we’ll sune gar him loup to the pipin’ till he coup,
For we’ll gi’e him just a drappie, an’ he’ll no say na!