The spinning o’t.
[Tune, "Rock and wee pickle tow."]
Now Sandy, the winter's cauld blasts are awa',
And simmer, we've seen the beginning o't;
I've lang been wearied o' frost and o' snaw,
And sair ha'e I tired o' the spinning o't;
For when we were married our cleeding was thin,
And poortith, ye ken, made me eident to spin,
'Twas fain love o' you that first gart me begin,
And blessings ha'e followed the spinning o't.
When mornings were cauld, and the keen frost and snaw
Were blawin', I mind the beginning o't,
And je gaed to wark, be it frost or be't thaw,
My task was nae less at the spinning o't:
But now we've a pantry baith muckle and fu'
O' ilka thing gude for to gang in the mou';
A barrel o' ale, wi' some maut for to brew,
To mak' us forget the beginning o't.
And when winter comes back, wi' the snell hail and rain,
Nae mair I sit down to the spinning o't,
Nor you gang to toil in the cauld fields again,
As little think on the beginning o't:
O' sheep we ha'e scores, and o' kye twenty-five,
Far less we ha'e seen wad made us fu' blythe;
But thrift and industry maks poor fouk to thrive,
A clear proof o' that is the spinning o't,
Although at our marriage our stock was but sma',
And heartless and hard the beginning o't,
When ye was engaged the owsen to ca',
And first my young skill tried the spinning o't;
But now we can dress in our plaidies sae sma',
Fu' neat and fu' clean gae to kirk or to ha',
And look aye as blythe as the best o' them a',
Sic luck has been o' the beginning o't.