The Whustlin Lad - Poem by Violet Jacob
THERE'S a wind comes doon frae the braes when the licht is spreedin
Chilly an grey,
An the auld cock craws at the yett o the muirland steadin'
Cryin on day;
The hoose lies soond an the sma' muin's deein an weary
Watchin her lane,
The shaidaes creep by the dyke an the time seems eerie,
But the lad i' the fields he is whustlin cheery, cheery,
'yont i' the rain.
My mither stirs as she wauks wi her twa een blinkin,
Bedded she'll bide,
For foo can an auld wife ken what a lassie's thinkin
Close at her side?
Mither, lie still, for ye're needin a rest fou sairly,
Weary an worn,
Mither, I'll rise, an ye ken I'll be warkin fairly-
An I dinna ken wha can be whustlin, whustlin, aerly,
Lang or it's morn!
Gin ye hear a soond like the sneck o the backdoor turnin,
Fash na for it;
It's juist the crack i' the lum o the green wud burnin,
Ill to be lit;
Gin ye hear a step, it's the auld mear lowse i' the stable
Stampin the strae,
Or mysel that's settin the parritch-spuins on the table,
Sae turn ye aboot an sleep, mither, sleep while ye're able,
Rest while ye mey.
Up at the steadin' the trail o the mist haes liftit
Clear frae the grund,
Mither breathes saft an her face to the waa she's shiftit-
Aye, but she's soond!
Lad, ye mey come, for there's nane but mysel will hear ye
Oot by the stair,
But whustle you on an I winna hae need to fear ye,
For, laddie, the lips that keep whustlin, whustlin cheery
Canna dae mair!
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