Tho’ weel I lo’e the budding spring,
I’ll no misca’ John Frost,
Nor will I roose the summer days
At gowden autum’s cost;
For a’ the seasons in their turn
Some wished-for pleasures bring,
And hand in hand they jink aboot,
Like weans at jingo-ring.
Fu’ weel I mind how aft ye said,
When winter nights were lang,
“I weary for the summer woods,
The lintie’s tittering sang;
But when the woods grew gay and green,
And birds sang sweet and clear,
It then was, “When will hairst-time come,
The gloaming o’ the year?”
Oh! hairst time’s like a lipping cup
That’s gi’en wi’ furthy glee!
The fields are fu’ o’ yellow corn,
Red apples bend the tree;
The genty air, sae ladylike!
Has on a scented gown,
And wi’ an airy string she leads
The thistle-seed balloon.
The yellow corn will porridge mak’,
The apples taste your mou’,
And ower the stibble riggs I’ll chase
The thistle-down wi’ you;
I’ll pu’ the haw frae aff the thorn,
The red hip frae the brier——
For wealth hangs in each tangled nook
In the gloaming o’ the year.
Sweet Hope! ye biggit ha’e a nest
Within my bairnie’s breast—
Oh may his trusting heart ne’er trow
That whiles ye sing in jest;
Some coming joys are dancing aye
Before his langing een,—
He sees the flower that isna blawn,
And birds that ne’er were seen;—
The stibble rigg is aye ahin’!
The gowden grain afore,
And apples drop into his lap,
Or row in at the door!
Come, hairst-time, then, unto my bairn,
Drest in your gayest gear,
Wi’ saft and winnowing win’s to cool
The gloaming o’ the year!