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John Henderson's
adapted lyrics of Charles Murray's poem,
to be sung to part of Peter Barnes 'pennywhistling' of the tune,
'Jack's Maggot Gathering Peascods.'
He'd cut a sappy sucker frae the muckle rodden-tree,
An he'd trim it, an he'd wet it, an he'd fair thump it oan his
knee;
Syne he wid nivver hear the teuchat whan the harrow brook her
eggs,
An he'd miss the craggit heron nabbin puddocks in the seggs,
Aye foryet hound the cattle when they strayed,
Bit ye shid hae seen the fine fustle thit the braw wee herd lad
made.
He'd wheeple oan’t at mornin an he'd tweetle on’t at nicht,
An he'd puff his freckled cheecks oontil his wee neb sank oot o
sicht,
Syne the kye'd be late fur milkin whan he piped them up the
closs,
An the kitlin'd gat his supper syne, an he'd be beddit boss;
He gied na doit nor docken whit wis said,
Fur there wis comfort in the fine fustle thit the braw wee herd
lad made.
For lyin lang ilk mornin he hid clawed the caup fur weeks,
Bit thase days he hid his bonnet oan afore the lave hid breeks;
He'd be fustlin’ tae the porridge thit wur hott’rin oan the
fire,
An he'd be fustlin ower the travise tae the baillie in the byre;
Nae yin mavis, wi pipin fur its trade,
Wis nar a marra fur the fine fustle thit the braw wee herd lad
made.
He played a march tae battle, it cam dirlin throw the mist,
Till the halflin squared his shoo’ders an made up his mind tae
‘list;
He aince tried a spring fur wooers, tho he wistna whit it meant,
Bit whan the kitchen-lass wis lauchin he aft thocht she mebbe
kent;
He'd git bannocks fur the luv lilts he played,
Fur sae affa guid wis the fine fustle thit the braw wee herd lad
made.
He blew them rants sae canty, fest schottisches, reels, an jigs,
Thit the foalie flang his muckle legs as it capered ow'r the
rigs,
An the grey-tailed futt’ratt bobbit oot tae hear his ain
strathspey,
Thon bawd cam loupin’ throw the corn daen ‘Clean Pease Strae’;
Feet gat youkie frae aa the teens he played —
Yirs tee gin ye'd heard the graun tweetle thit the wee herd lad
made.
Bit the snaa stapp'd the herdin’ an the winter brocht him dool,
Whaur in spite o hacks an chiblain'd feet, he wis shod aince
mair fur school;
Whan he couldna sough the catechis, nor pipe the rule o three,
He wis aft kept in an lickit whan the ithers they got free;
Playin truant — the ainly thing he played,
The maister hid brunt the fine whistle thit the wee herd lad hid
made ! |
