|Freedom For Scotland|
|David Wingate ( The Collier Poet)|
| John Frost
SUGGESTED BY THE PRATTLE OF A CHILD
Oh, mither, John Frost, cam' yestreen,
And owre a' the garden he's been;
He's on kail-socks,
And my twa printed frocks
That Mary left out on the green,
John Frost foun' them out on the green.
And he's been on the trees, the auld loon,
And heaps o' brown leaves shoken doon;
He's been fleein' a' nicht,
Frae the dark to the licht,
And missed nae a house in the toun,
The auld loon-
He's missed nae a house in the toun.
And mither, he's killed every flee-
Noo ane on the wa' yell no' see
On the windows there's nane,
For the last leevin'' ane
Fell doun frae the rape in oor tea,
Puir thing !-
Just drappit doun dead in oor tea.
And, mither, the paths frostit a';
If ye gang the least fast ye jist fa'.
Oh, ye ne'er saw sic fun!
I got ae curran-bun,
And wee Annie Kenzie got twa,
Daft wee thing;
She jist slade a wee bit and got twa.
And my auntie her een couldna close,
For she said her auld bluid he just froze.
He cam' in below the claes,
And he nippit oor taes-
And he maist tane awa' Bobbys nose,
Puir wee man;
Sure, he couldna dae wantin' his nose.
And my uncle was chitterin 'to death,
And John Frost wadna let him get breath;
And the fire wadna heat
Uncles twa starvin' feet,
Till the soles o' his socks were burned baith;
And the reek comin oot o' them baith.
But what brings John Frost here ava,
Wi' his frost and his cranreugh and snaw?
Its a bonny-like thing!
He just wafft his lang wing,
And a' our wee flowers flew awa' Every ane;
And Rosss red dwalies and a'.
And, mither, he gangs through the street,
Just looking for weans wi' bare feet:
And he nips at their heels,
And the skin aff them peels,
And he thinks its fine fun when they greet,
The auld loun;
He nips them the mair when they greet.
Wi' his capers the folk shouldna thole.
D'ye ken?- He breathed in through a bole
Whare the wee lassie lay,
And she dee't the next day,
And they laid her doun the kirk-hole
Puir wee lamb
And covered her in the kirk-hole.
But guess what my auntie tell't me?
She says the wee weans, when they dee,
Flee awa' owre the moon,
And need nae claes or shoon,
To a place whare John Frost they'll ne'er see,
To a place whare John Frost daurna be.
And she says our wee Katie gaed there,
And she'll never be hoastin' nae mair.
Sure, we'll gang there ana'-
We'll flee up an' n' fa'-
And we'll see her jist in her wee chair
And she'll lauch
In her bonny wee red-cushioned chair.
|Dalziel In Winter|
|January 25th 1888|
|The Collier's Ragged Wean|
|A Miner's Morning Song|
|The Quarter Folk's Fair|