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HEN aince Aprile has fairly come,
An' birds may bigg in winter's lum,

An pleisure's spreid for a' and some

O' whatna state,

Love, wi' her auld recruitin' drum,
Than taks the gate.

The heart plays dunt wi' main an' micht;
The lasses' een are a' sae bricht,

Their dresses are sae braw an' ticht,
The bonny birdies! -

Puir winter virtue at the sicht

Gangs heels ower hurdies.

An' aye as love frae land to land
Tirls the drum wi' eident hand,
A' men collect at her command,
Toun-bred or land'art,

An' follow in a denty band
Her gaucy standart.

An' I, wha sang o' rain an' snaw,
An' weary winter weel awa',

Noo busk me in a jacket braw,

An' tak my place

I' the ram-stam, harum-scarum raw, Wi' smilin' face.



MILE an' a bittock, a mile or twa,

Abüne the burn, ayont the law, Davie an' Donal' an' Cherlie an' a',

An' the müne was shinin' clearly!

Ane went hame wi' the ither, an' then
The ither went hame wi' the ither twa men,
An' baith wad return him the service again,
An' the müne was shinin' clearly!

The clocks were chappin' in house an' ha',
Eleeven, twal an' ane an' twa;

An' the guidman's face was turnt to the wa',
An' the müne was shinin' clearly!

A wind got up frae affa the sea,
It blew the stars as clear's could be,
It blew in the een of a' o' the three,

An' the müne was shinin' clearly!

Noo, Davie was first to get sleep in his head, "The best o' frien's maun twine," he said; "I'm weariet, an' here I'm awa' to my bed." An' the müne was shinin' clearly!

Twa o' them walkin' an' crackin' their lane, The mornin' licht cam gray an' plain,

An' the birds they yammert on stick an' stane,

An' the müne was shinin' clearly!

O years ayont, O years awa',

My lads, ye'll mind whate'er befa'

My lads, ye'll mind on the bield o' the law, When the müne was shinin' clearly!



HE clinkum-clank o' Sabbath bells
Noo to the hoastin' rookery swells,
Noo faintin' laigh in shady dells,
Sounds far an' near,

An' through the simmer kintry tells
Its tale o' cheer.

An' noo, to that melodious play,
A' deidly awn the quiet sway-
A' ken their solemn holiday,
Bestial an' human,

The singin' lintie on the brae,
The restin' plou'man.

He, mair than a' the lave o' men,
His week completit joys to ken;
Half-dressed, he daunders out an' in,
Perplext wi' leisure;

An' his raxt limbs he'll rax again
Wi' painfü' pleesure.

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