Frederic William Moorman

Jenny Storm

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Young Jenny, she walked ower t' ribbed sea-sand,
(T' lairocks sing sae sweetly, O!)
Wheer she met a fisher-lad, net i' t' hand,
As t' tide cam hoamin'(1) in.

"Jenny, thy farm is twee mile away;
(T' wing-mouse flits sae featly, O!)
Say, what is thou latin'(2) at dusk 'o day,
When t' tide cooms hoamin' in."

"I's latin' waif an' straif(3) by the feam,
(O! esh an' yak are good for bield)
I's latin' timmer to big me a heam,
As t' tide cooms hoamin' in."

"What for is thou latin' waif an' straif?
(T' summer-gauze(4) floats ower hedge an' field)
What for is thou biggin' a heam an' a hafe,(5)
When t' tide cooms hoamin' in?"

"To-morn is t' day when I sal be wed,
(T' bride-wain's plenished wi' serge an' silk)
Jock's anchored his boat i' t' lang road-stead,
An' t' tide cooms hoamin' in.

To-morn we gan to t' kirk on t' brow,
(Nesh satin shoon as white as milk)
Fisher-folk wi' me, an' ploo-lads enow,
When t' tide cooms hoamin' in."

"Frae thy jilted lad what gift mun thou get?
(T' lairocks sing sae sweetly, O!))
Twee lucky-steanes, or fine ear-rings o' jet,
When t' tide cooms hoamin' in?"

"I'll tak nayther rings nor steanes frae thee,
(T' wing-mouse flits sae featly, O!))
But yon token I gave thee gie back to me,
Noo t' tide cooms hoamin' in."


"Thy token is safe i' t' Boggle Nook
(T' sea-mew plains when t' sun clims doon)
Thou can finnd it thisel, if thou'll gan an' look,
When t' tide cooms hoamin' in."

Young Jenny, she tripped ower t' yallow strand,
(White ullets(1) dance i' t' glent o' t' moon)
Her step was ower leet to dimple t' sand,
As t' tide cam hoamin' in.

I' t' Boggle Nook lay t' lad she sud wed;
T' neet-hags skreek sae dowly, O!))
Foul sea-weed cluthered(7) aboon his head,
An' t' mouth she had kissed wi' blood was red,
As t' tide cam hoamin' in.

Nea tear she shed, nea word she spak,
(T' witches gloor sae foully, O!)
But an awfish(8) laugh flew ower t' sea-wrack,(9)
As t' tide cam hoamin' in.

They carried them heam by t' leet o' t' moon,
(T' neet-hags skreek sae dowly, O!)
Him to his grave on t' brow aboon,
Her to yon mad-house i' Scarbro' toon,
Wheer t' tide cooms hoamin' in.

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Frederic William Moorman