Glen Collection of printed music > Printed music > Miller o' Hirn collection of over one hundred strathspeys, reels, Highland schottisches, slow airs, songs, hornpipes, jigs etc.

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in Om _ ni _ po _ tence sheen; My heart maist_ly
rent when her
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i
Years hae rolld on sin’ the sod happ’d her mither;
Whiles we’ve been dowie, an’whiles we’ve been glad,
An’ whiles whan we're cantie an’ coortin’ thegither,
A stranger micht tak’s for a lass an’ a lad.
In the weird wintry time, whan lang wark made me weary,
Frae chanticleer’s matin to vesper at e’en,
The click o’ her staff on the stanes made me cheery,
Whan, smiling she met me_ my wee cripple wean.
4th
She grew grave at her prayers, an’ she learn’d her carritch,
An’ sang hymn’s 0’ heaven wi’ an’ organ-like swell;
An’ at nicht,whan the dear thing had suppit her parritch,
I wash’d wi’ a will her bit duddies mysel’.
Oorgear bein’ scant, unbefriended, unaided,
I mendit her stockin’s an’ clootit her sheen;
An’ blithe beat my breast as the broon curls I braided
That kiss’d the broad broo o’ my wee cripple wean.
3rd
’Twas a cauld cabin oors, for ’twas rottin’ an’ fa' in’;
Sometimes we had fire, an’ sometimes we had nane;
An’ we cudna help shiverin’ when Boreas was blawin;
The‘beautiful snow” thro the auld crackit pane.
Tho’oorbits 0’bed trappin’were no unco cosy,
We cuddled the closer an’ steekit oor een,
An’ I felt mair than happy whan sleepin sae rosy
She dream'd in my oxter_ my wee cripple wean.
sth
She’s a little Minerva in wisdom, the kitty—
Ye’d wonder hoo words come sae glib to her tongue;
Her funny remarkin’, sae wise-like an’ witty,
Amuses the auld an’ dumfoonders the young.
A Venus in beauty as modest’ a gowan,
A seraph in mind, a Madonna in mien,
Wi’ a heartie sae tender, sae loving sae lowin’
She’s a’ body^s body— my wee cripple wean.
6^
The cluds that sae lang hae been hovering o’er us,
Hope’s balmiest breezes are driving away;
An’ 1T1 live yet to sing ye a cheerier chorus
While Tibbuck’s the love an’ the lieht 0’ my lay.
I dootna some day shell astonish the warl^
An’ the warl’ mayhap hail her Poetry’s Queen,
Wi’ a ha’ 0’ her ain an’ a garland o’ laurel
Be wreath’d roond the broo 0’ my wee cripple wean.