You've come early to see us this
year, John Frost,
Wi your crispin an poutherin gear,
John Frost;
For hedge, tower, an tree, as far as
I see,
Are as white as the bloom o the
pear, John frost.
You've been very preceese wi your
wark, John Frost,
Altho ye hae wrocht in the dark,
John Frost;
For ilka fit-stap frae the door to
the slap
Is braw as a new linen sark, John
Frost.
There are some things aboot ye I
like, John Frost,
An ithers that aft gar me fyke, John
Frost;
For the weans, wi cauld taes, cryin
'shoon, stockins, claes' !
Keep us busy as bees in the byke,
John Frost.
An to tell you I winna be blate,
John Frost,
Our gudeman stops oot whiles rather
late, John Frost,
An the blame's put on you, if he
gets a thocht fou,
He's sae fleyed for the slippery
lang gate, John Frost.
Ye hae fine goins-on in the north,
John Frost
Wi your houses o ice, an sae forth,
John Frost;
Tho their kirn's on the fire, they
may kirn till they tire,
But their butter - pray what is it
worth, John Frost?
