DONOCHT-HEAD.[52]
Reading edition
DONOCHT-HEAD.[52]
BY THE LATE GEORGE PICKERING, OF NEWCASTLE.
Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-head, The snaw drives snelly through the dale, The Gaber-lunzie tirls my sneck, And shivering tells his waefu' tale:— "Cauld is the night, O let me in, And dinna let your minstrel fa'! And dinna let his winding-sheet Be naething but a wreath o' snaw. Full ninety winters hae I seen, And pip'd where gor-cocks whirring flew, And mony a day I've danc'd, I ween, To lilts which from my drone I blew." My Eppie wak'd, and soon she cried, "Get up, gudeman, and let him in; For weel ye ken the winter night Was short when he began his din." My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet, Ev'n though she bans and scaulds a wee; But when it's tuned to sorrow's tale, O, haith it's doubly dear to me. Come in, auld carl, I'll steer my fire, I'll make it bleeze a bonny flame; Your blood is thin, ye've tint the gait, Ye should na stray sae far frae hame. "Nae hame have I, the minstrel said, Sad party strife o'erturn'd my ha'; And, weeping at the eve of life, I wander through a wreath o' snaw."