William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909.
Symon and JanetAndrew Scott (17571839)
S
Where muircocks and plivers are rife,
For mony a lang towmont thegither
There lived an auld man and his wife.
The twasome they seldom were mute;
Bonaparte, the French, and invasion,
Did saur in their wizens like soot.
And night’s gloomy canopy spread,
Auld Symon sat luntin’ his cuttie,
And lowsin’ his buttons for bed:
(To lock in the door was her care),
She, seeing our signals a-blazin’,
Cam’ running in rivin’ her hair.
Gae look, man, and slip on your shoon;
Our signals I see them extendit,
Like the red rising blaze o’ the moon!’
And clash! gaed his pipe to the wa’;
‘Faith, then there’s be loadin’ and primin’,’
Quo’ he, ‘if they’re landit ava’!
Our eldest grandson’s volunteer;
And the French to be fu’ o’ the flesh o’,
I too in the ranks will appear.’
And bang’d down his rusty auld gun;
His bullets he put in the other,
That he for the purpose had run.
While Janet his courage bewails,
And cries out, ‘Dear Symon, be wary;’
Whilst teughly she hung by his tails.
‘Nor vex me wi’ tears and your cares;
If now I be ruled by a woman,
Nae laurels shall crown my grey hairs.’
Last night, man, I dreamt ye was dead;—
This aught days I’ve tentit a pyot
Sit chatterin’ upon the house-head.
And you wi’ your sheep on the hill,
A muckle black corbie sat croackin’,—
I kenn’d it foreboded some ill.’
For, ere the next sun may gae doun,
Wha kens but I’ll shoot Bonaparte,
And end my auld days in renown?’
I’ll tend thee, love, livin’ or dead;
And if thou should fa’ I’ll die wi’ thee,
Or tie up thy wounds if thou bleed.’
Wi’ bullets, and pouther, and gun;
At’s curpin auld Janet too humpled,—
Awa’ to the neighbouring toon.
To scour aff in dirdum were seen—
Auld wives and young lassies a-sheddin’
The briny saut tears frae their een.
And to the commander he gaes;
Quo’ he, ‘Sir, I mean to go wi’ ye, man,
And help ye to lounder our faes.
Sae we’ll at the rogues have a dash—
And, fegs, if my gun winna fire,
I’ll turn her butt-end and I’ll thrash!’
The Captain did smiling reply;
But begg’d he would stay till to-morrow,
Till daylight should glent in the sky.
Sae Symon and Janet, his dame,
Hale-skart frae the wars, without skaithing
Gaed bannin’ the French again hame.