Barrochan Jean.
[Robert Tannahill.—Air "Johnnie M'Gill."]
'Tis hinna ye heard, man, o' Barrochan Jean?
And hinna ye heard, man, o' Barrochan Jean!
How death and starvation came o'er the haill nation,
She wraught sic mischief wi' her twa pawky een;
The lads and the lasses were dying in dizzens,
The taen kill'd wi' love, and the tither wi' spleen,
The ploughing, the sawing, the shearing, the mawing,
A' wark was forgotten for Barrochan Jean!
Frae the south and the north, o'er the Tweed and the Forth,
Sic coming and ganging there never was seen,
The comers were cheery, the gangers were blearie,
Despairing, or hoping for Barrochan Jean.
The carlins at hame were a' girning and graning,
The bairns were a' greeting frae morning till e'en,
They gat naething for crowdy, but runts boil'd to sowdie,
For naething gat growing for Barrochan Jean.
The doctors declar'd it was past their descriving,
The ministers said 'twas a judgment for sin,
But they lookit sae blae, and their hearts were sae wae,
I was sure they were dying for Barrochan Jean.
The burns on road-sides were a' dry wi' their drinking,
Yet a' wadna sloken the drouth i' their skin;
A' around the peat-stacks, and alangst the dyke backs,
E'en the winds were a' sighing, sweet Barrochan Jean.
The timmer ran done wi' the making o' coffins,
Kirkyards o' their sward were a' howkit fu' clean,
Dead lovers were packit like herring in barrels,
Sic thousands were dying for Barrochan Jean.
But mony braw thanks to the Laird o' Glen-Brodie,
The grass owre their graffs is now bonnie and green,
He sta' the proud heart of our wanton young lady,
And spoil'd a' the charms o' her twa pawky een.