AYE SHE WROUGHT HER MAMMIE’S WARK
There was a lass, and she was fair,
At kirk and market to be seen;
When a’ the fairest maids were met,
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean.
And aye she wrought her mammie’s wark,
And aye she sang sae merrily:
The blythest bird upon the bush
Had ne’er a lighter heart than she.
But hawks will rob the tender joys
That bless the little lintwhite’s nest;
And frost will blight the fairest flowers,
And love will break the soundest rest.
Young Robie was the brawest lad.
The flower and pride of a’ the glen;
And he had owsen, sheep and kye,
And wanton naigies nine or ten.
He gaed wi’ Jeanie to the tryst,
He danc’d wi’ Jeanie on the down;
And lang ere witless Jeanie wist,
Her heart was tint, her peace was stown.
As in the bosom o’ the stream
The moon-beam dwells at dewy e’en;
So trembling, pure, was tender love
Within the breast o’ bonnie Jean.
And now she works her mammie’s wark,
And aye she sighs wi’ care and pain;
Yet wistna what her ail might be,
Or what wad mak her weel again.
But didna Jeanie’s heart loup light,
And didna joy blink in her e’e,
As Robie tauld a tale o’ love,
Ae e’enin’ on the lily lea?
The sun was sinking in the west,
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove;
His cheek to hers he fondly prest,
And whisper’d thus his tale o’ love:
‘O Jeanie fair, I lo’e thee dear;
O canst thou think to fancy me?
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie’s cot,
And learn to tent the farms wi’ me?
‘At barn or byre thou shaltna drudge,
Or naething else to trouble thee;
But stray amang the heather-bells,
And tent the waving corn wi’ me.’
Now what could artless Jeanie do?
She had nae will to say him na:
At length she blush’d a sweet consent,
And love was aye between them twa.