Page:Vocalist's song book (1).pdf/12

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That head--let it rest--it is now in the mools, Tho' in life a' the warld beside it were fools, Yet o' what kind o' wisdom his head was possest, Nane e'er kent but himsel', sae there's nane that will miss't.

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BARROCHAN JEAN.

'Tis hinna ye heard, man o' Barrochan Jean? And hinna ye heard man o' Barrochan Jean! How death and starvation came o'er the hail nation, She wrought sic mischief wi' her twa pawky e'en; The lads and the lasses were dying in dizzens, The taen kill'd wi' love and the tither wi' spleen, The ploughing, the sawing, the shearing, the mawing, A' wark was forgotten for Barrochan Jean!

Frae the south and the north, o'er the Tweed and the Forth, Sic coming and ganging there never was seen, The comers were cheery, the gangers were blearie, Despairing or hoping for Barrochan Jean. The carlins at hame were a' girning and granning, The bairns were a' greeting frae morning till e'en, They gat naething for crowdy, but runts boiled to                   sowdy, For naethink gat growing for Barrochan Jean.

The doctors declar'd it was past their describing, The ministers said 'twas a judgment for sin, But they looked sae blae, and their hearts were sae wae, I was sure they were dying for Barrochan Jean. The burns on road-sides were a' dry wi' their drinking. Yet a' wadna sloken the drouth o' their skin; A' round the peat-stacks, and alangst the dyke-backs, winds were a' sighing, sweet Barrochan