The Book of Scottish Song/Wattle's the waur o' the wear

Wattle’s the waur o’ the wear.

[Tune, "Fy let us a' to the bridal."]

On Tysday gaun out i' the e'enin'
⁠Amang the green woodlands alane,
I heard a fair maid complainin'
⁠An' making a pityfu' maen,
An' this was the mournfu' occasion,
⁠The source o' the saut gushin' tear,
An' burden o' her lamentation,
⁠"Auld Wattie's the waur o' the wear."

Ye birds in the green woodlands singing,
⁠Ye shepherds o' dark ravin' Dee,
Ye rocks and ye wild echoes ringing,
⁠Ye cleughs fu' o' gladness an' glee;
Owre Jeanie's sad fate dinna swagger,
⁠Your music delights na her ear,
It sends to her heart like a dagger,
⁠"Auld Wattie's the waur o' the wear."

My daddy for luve o' the tocher,
⁠Ga'e sour-gabbit grey-beard his Jean,
The body dow naething but clochar,
⁠An' grane like a brownie at e'en;
His jaws canna chow a saft bannock,
⁠He growls like a Norawa bear,
The verra weans cry through the winnock,
⁠"Auld Wattie's the waur o' the wear."

Gley'd Gibbie thraws on his grey jacket,
⁠It kivers a rukle o' banes,
An' lilts awa' hame like a cricket,
⁠An' craws owre his cleckin' o' weans.
An' lingle-tall'd Tibbie, their mither,
⁠Ca's him baith her joy an' her dear,
Gude sen' Josie Tait an' his tether,
⁠For Wattie's the waur o' the wear.

Now wae to the weary psalm-lelter,
⁠Wha thrice i' the kirk fill't my e'e,
An' wae to the haly sin-pelter,
⁠Wha kippl't the carl to me.
An' wae to the grey colt that carry't
⁠The sorrowfu' bride o' Troqueer,
An' dool to the day I was marry't
⁠To Wattie the waur o' the wear.

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