The Sang That Jenny Sings
It is naething but a lilt,
Yet its rinnin' in my heid;
Just a lilt, an' that is a',
O' an auld auld-warld screed.
The great Lars Andersonicus,
Who dwelleth in the South,
Who hath the front of Grecian Jove
And the heavy bearded mouth,
The Steerin' Wee Laddie
He winna sup his poshie, the buffy, curly loon,
But spurs and spurtles on my knee, an' quarrels for the spoon,
Rubbin' till his een grow red, and than anither yell;
Oh, an awfu' plague's that laddie wha wants to sup himsel'.
Two sisters stood by the window,
The winds were in their hair;
And cheek to cheek they watched and saw,
The smooth sea sleeping there.
The San' Man
San' man frae the quarry hole,
Bring a pouk o' san';
Stan' ahint my back, an' tak'
A neivefu' in your han'.
The Sorrow Of The Sea
A day of fading light upon the sea;
Of sea-birds winging to their rocky caves;
And ever, with its monotone to me,
The sorrow of the waves.