Colin Clout.
[This is only a fragment of an old song: the rest is supposed to be lost. Richard Galt communicated it to Johnson's Museum, where it was set to music by Stephen Clarke.]
Chanticleer, wi' noisy whistle,
Bids the housewife rise in haste:
Colin Clout begins to hirsle,
Slawly frae his sleepless nest,
Love that raises sic a clamour,
Drivin' lads and lasses mad;
Waes my heart! had coost his glamour,
O'er poor Colin, luckless lad.
Cruel Jenny, lack a daisy!
Lang had gart him greet and grane,
Colin's pate was hafflins crazy,
Jenny laugh'd at Colin's pain.
Slawly, up his duds he gathers,
Slawly, slawly trudges out,
An' frae the fauld he drives his wedders,
Happier far than Colin Clout.
Now the sun, rais'd frae his nappie,
Set the orient in a lowe,
Drinkin' ilka glancin' drappie,
I' the field, an' i' the knowe.
Mony a birdie, sweetly singin',
Flaffer'd briskly round about;
An' monie a daintie flowerie springin',
A' were blythe but Colin Clout.
What is this? cries Colin glow'rin',
Glaiked like, a' round about,
Jenny! this is past endurin':
Death maun ease poor Colin Clout.
A' the night I toss and tumble,
Never can I close an e'e,
A' the day I grane an' grumble,
Jenny, this is a' for thee.
Ye'll ha'e nane but farmer Patie,
'Cause the fallow 's rich, I trow,
Aiblins though he shouldna cheat ye,
Jenny, ye'll ha'e cause to rue.
Auld, and gley'd, and crooked backed,—
Siller bought at sic a price,—
Ah, Jenny! gin ye lout to tak' it,
Folk will say ye're no o'er nice.