Robert Tannahill

And were ye at Duntocher burn

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And were ye at Duntocher burn,
And did ye see them a', man?
And how's my wifie and the bairns?
I hae been lang awa', man.
That cotton wark's a weary trade,
It does na' suit ava, man;
Wi' lanely house, and lanely bed,
My comforts are but sma', man.

And how's wee Sandy, Pate, and Tam?
Sit down and tak' your blew, man:
Fey, lassie, rin, fetch in a dram,
To treat my friend, John Lamon'.
For ilka plack you've gi'en to mine,
Your callans shall get twa, man;
O were my heels as licht's my heart,
I soon would see them a', man.

My blessing on her kindly heart,
She likes to see me brew, man;
She's darn'd my hose, and bleach'd my sarks
As white's the driven snaw, man.
And ere the winds o' Martinmas
Sough through the scroggie shaw, man,
I'll lift my weel-hain'd penny fee,
And gang and see them a', man.

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Robert Tannahill