Thoâ€™ weel I loâ€™e the budding spring,
Â Â Iâ€™ll no miscaâ€™ John Frost,
Nor will I roose the summer days
Â Â At gowden autumâ€™s cost;
For aâ€™ the seasons in their turn
Â Â Some wished-for pleasures bring,
And hand in hand they jink aboot,
Â Â Like weans at jingo-ring.
Fuâ€™ weel I mind how aft ye said,
Â Â When winter nights were lang,
â€œI weary for the summer woods,
Â Â The lintieâ€™s tittering sang;
But when the woods grew gay and green,
Â Â And birds sang sweet and clear,
It then was, â€œWhen will hairst-time come,
Â Â The gloaming oâ€™ the year?â€
Oh! hairst timeâ€™s like a lipping cup
Â Â Thatâ€™s giâ€™en wiâ€™ furthy glee!
The fields are fuâ€™ oâ€™ yellow corn,
Â Â Red apples bend the tree;
The genty air, sae ladylike!
Â Â Has on a scented gown,
And wiâ€™ an airy string she leads
Â Â The thistle-seed balloon.
The yellow corn will porridge makâ€™,
Â Â The apples taste your mouâ€™,
And ower the stibble riggs Iâ€™ll chase
Â Â The thistle-down wiâ€™ you;
Iâ€™ll puâ€™ the haw frae aff the thorn,
Â Â The red hip frae the brierâ€”â€”
For wealth hangs in each tangled nook
Â Â In the gloaming oâ€™ the year.
Sweet Hope! ye biggit haâ€™e a nest
Â Â Within my bairnieâ€™s breastâ€”
Oh may his trusting heart neâ€™er trow
Â Â That whiles ye sing in jest;
Some coming joys are dancing aye
Â Â Before his langing een,â€”
He sees the flower that isna blawn,
Â Â And birds that neâ€™er were seen;â€”
The stibble rigg is aye ahinâ€™!
Â Â The gowden grain afore,
And apples drop into his lap,
Â Â Or row in at the door!
Come, hairst-time, then, unto my bairn,
Â Â Drest in your gayest gear,
Wiâ€™ saft and winnowing winâ€™s to cool
Â Â The gloaming oâ€™ the year!