Whaur are ye gaen sae fast, my bairn,
It's no tae the schule ye'll win?'
Doon tae the shore at the fit o' the toon
Tae bide till the brigs come in
Awa' noo wi' ye and turn ye hame,
Ye'll no hae the time tae bide;
It's twa lang months or the brigs come back
On the lift o' a risin' tide.
I'll sit me doon at the water's mau'
Till there's niver a blink o' licht,
For my feyther bad' me tae tryst wi' him
In the dairkness o' yesternicht.
"Rise ye an' rin tae the shore", says he,
"At the cheep o' the waukin' bird,
And I'll bring ye a tale o' a foreign land
The like that ye niver heard."
Oh, haud yer havers, ye feckless wean,
It was but a dream ye saw,
For he's far, far north wi' the Baltic men
I' the hurl o' the Baltic snaw;
And what did he ca' yon foreign land?'
He tell'tna its name tae me,
But I doot it's no by the Baltic shore,
For he said there was nae mair sea.
VIOLET JACOB 1863 - 1946