I've mony a winter seen an' spring, But like o' this I ne'er did see, Three open winters in a string, An' may the like again ne'er be. CHORUS: Alake my walie curling-stanes Ha'e no' been budg'd thir winters three, 'Tween the rains plish plash an' a fireside's fash, They have dreary winters been to me. Condemned to keep the chimney nook, The bairns like druiket hens by me, Fain I'd try Burns or Ramsay's book, But then I ne'er a stane can see. Is our great patron, Boreas, dead? While black skies greet, we penance drie, Some plashing sour slut in his stead, Wad murder socialitie. The farmer mourns his rotten sheep, The mason's wife aft dights her eye, While poor fo'k cry there's naething cheap, Some other thing still vexes me. While I on former winters think, How on the ice we met wi' glee, And cheerfu' swat to clear a rink, It gars me sigh right heavilie. When we had marked our gog an' hog, And parties formed o' four or three, Ilk ane wi' crampits an' broom scrog, How anxious, yet how blythe play'd we? When we had keenly play'd a while, Brose comes, an' whisky, cawld to flee, We Sol and Boreas to beguile, 'Tween shots wi' spoon or glass make free. When anes our game or light was done, We marched to dinner merrylie, Wi' saul an' body baith in tune, Wha shu'd be blythest, a' our plea. When comes the bowl we drink an' sing, An' crack o' bonspales till ha'f ree, Syne part in peace, a happy thing, Sic times again I fain wad see. May Boreas hasten frae the north, Gi' silver lokes to bush an' tree, I'd rather he wad plank the Forth, Than Thetis ever on us be.
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