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4
THE MINSTREL.
Keen blaws the wind o'er Donnocht-Head,
The snaw drives snellie thro' the dale;
The Gaberlunzie tirls my sneck,
And shivering, tells his waefu' tale.
Cauld is the night, O let me in,
And dinna let your minstrel fa';
And dinna let his winding sheet
Be naething but a wreath o' snaw.
Full ninety winters hae I seen,
And pip'd whar gor-cocks whirring flew,
And mony a day ye've danc'd I've seen,
To lilts which from my drone I blew.
My Eppie wak'd, and soon she cried,
Get up, gudeman, and let him in;
For weel ye ken the winter nights
Seem'd short when he began his din.
My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet,
E'en tho' she bans and scaulds a wee;
But when it's tun'd to sorrow's tale,
O, haith, it's doubly dear to me.
