Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/274

256 Then to the loch the curlers hie,

Their hearts as light's a feather,

And mark the tee wi' mirth and glee,

In cauld, cauld, frosty weather.

Our buirdly leaders down white ice,

Their whinstones doure send snooving,

And birks and brooms ply hard before,

When o'er the hog-score moving;

Till cheek by jowl within the brugh,

They're laid 'side ane anither,

Then round the tee we flock wi' glee,

In cauld, cauld, frosty weather.

Wi' canny hand they neist play down,

Their stanes o' glibber metal;

Yet bunkers aftrn send aglee,

Although they weel did ettle.

"Now strike—no—draw—come fill the port,"

They roar, and cry, and blether;

As round the tee we flock wi' glee,

In cauld, cauld, frosty weather.

A stalwart chiel, to redd the ice,

Drives roaring down like thunder;

Wi' awfu' crash the double guards

At ance are burst asunder;

Rip raping on frae random wicks

The winner gets a yether;

Then round the tee we flock wi' glee,

In cauld, cauld, frosty weather.

Our chief, whase skill and steady arm,

Gain mony a bonspeil dinner,

Cries, "Open wide—stand off behind,

Fy, John, fy, show the winner;

He goes—he moves—he rides him out

The length of ony tether,"

Huzzas wi' glee rise round the tee,

In cauld, cauld, frosty, weather.

But now the moon glints through the mist,

The wind blaws snell and freezing,

When straight we bicker aff in haste

To whare the ingle's bleezing,

In Curler Ha', sae bein and snug,

About the board we gather

Wi'mirth and glee, sirloin the tee,

In cauld, cauld, frosty weather.

In canty cracks, and sangs and jokes,

The night drives on wi' daffin',

And mony a kittle shot is ta'en,

While we're the toddy quaffing.

Wi' heavy heart we're laith to part,

But promise to forgether

Around the tee neist morn wi' glee,

In cauld, cauld, frosty weather.

[ of Kilbarchan.— Air, "M'Gilchrist's Lament."]

cauld kail in Aberdeen,

And custocks in Strathbogie;

And morn and e'en they're blythe and bein,

That haud them frae the cogie.

Now haud ye frae the cogie, lads,

And bide ye frae the cogie;

I'll tell ye true, ye'll never rue

O' passin' by the cogie!

Young Will was braw and weel put on,

Sae biythe was he and vogie,

And he got bonny Mary Don,

The flower o' a' Strathbogie: