Уильям Миллер (William Miller)

Gree, Bairnies, Gree

The moon has row'd her in a cloud,
     ⁠Stravagin' wuns begin
To shoggle and shake the window brods,
     ⁠Like loons that wad be in.
Gae whistle a tune in the lum-head,
     ⁠Or craik in saughen tree;
We're thankfu' for a cozie hame,
⁠     Sae gree, bairnies, gree.

Though gurlin' wuns may blaely blaw;
     ⁠Our roustn' fire will thow
The straggler's taes,—and keep fu' cosh
⁠     My tousie taps-o'-tow.
O, wha wad cule your kale, my bairns,
⁠     Or bake your bread like me,
Ye'd get the bit frae out my mouth,
⁠     Sae gree, bairnies, gree.

O, never fling the warmsome boon
⁠     O' bairnhood's love awa';
Mind how ye sleepit cheek to cheek,
⁠     Atween me and the wa',
How ae kind arm was owre ye baith—
⁠     But, if ye disagree,
Think on the kindly sowth'rin' soun',
⁠     O, gree, bairnies, gree.

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