Ye maun gang to the schule againâ€™ summer, my bairn,
Itâ€™s no near sae ill as yeâ€™re thinking to learn;
For learningâ€™s aâ€™ worldly riches aboonâ€”
Itâ€™s easy to carry, and never gaes done.
Yeâ€™ll read oâ€™ the land, and yeâ€™ll read oâ€™ the sea!
Oâ€™ the high and the low, oâ€™ the bound and the freeâ€”
And maybe a tear will the wee bookie stain,
When ye read oâ€™ the widow and fatherless wean.
And when â€˜tis a story of storms on the sea,
Where sailors are lost, who have bairnies like thee,
And your heart, growing grit for the fatherless wean,
Gars the tearies hap, hap oâ€™er your cheekies like rain;
Iâ€™ll then think on the dew that comes frae aboon,
Like draps frae the stars or the silvery moon,
To freshen the flowers:â€”but the tears frae your eâ€™e
For the woes of anither, are dearer to me.
So yeâ€™ll gae to the schule againâ€™ summer, my bairnâ€”
Yeâ€™re sae gleg oâ€™ the uptakâ€™ ye soon will learn;â€”
And Iâ€™m sure ere the dark nights oâ€™ winter keek ben,
Yeâ€™ll can read William Wallace frae enâ€™ to enâ€™.