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The Mucking of GEORDIE’S BYRE.
AS I went over yon meadow,
and in by yon little house end,
I stood and I listen’d with pleasure,
while Jenny was singing this song.
CHORUS.
It was not my father’s good will,
nor yet with my mother’s desire,
That ever I fil’d my fingers,
with the mucking of Geordie’s byre.
Though the roads were never so dirty,
and the day was never so foul,
I wad trudge to the midden with Geordie,
I lov’d it far better than school.
When done, and our feet we had dighted,
we merrily ranted and sang,
And thro’ the bull’s buists like young kinnings,
where oft-times I struggled and flang.
There into the hay-nouk he caught me,
where oft he has cock’d on my wame,
I laught and was pleas’d with his actions,
but now they’re discover’d with shame.
My brother he calls me a jade,
because Geordie with me was so free,
My sister she says I’m hood-winked,
