The east wind's whistlin' cauld an' shrill, The snaw lies on the Lomont Hill; It's simmer i' the almanack, But when 'ill simmer days be back? There's no' a bud on tree or buss; The craws are at a sair nonplus,- Hoo can they big? hoo can they pair? Wi' them sae cauld, and wuds sae bare. My faither canna saw his seed,- The hauf o' th' laund's to ploo, indeed; The lambs are deein', an' the yowes Are trauchled wanderin' owre the knowes. There's no' a swallow back as yet, The robin doesna seek to flit; There's no' a buckie, nor a bud, On ony brae, in ony wud. It's no' a time for barefit feet When it may be on-ding o' sleet. The season's broken a' oor rules,- It's no' the time o' year o' bools; It's no' the time o' year o' peeries. I think the year's gane tapsalteeries! The farmers may be bad, nae doot- It pits hiz laddies sair aboot. |