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Barochan Jean

 

Air— “Johnnie M'Gill.”


1809.

 

‘Tis haena ye heard, man, o Barochan Jean ?
An haena ye heard, man, o Barochan Jean ?
How death an starvation cam o'er the haill nation,
She wrocht sic mischief wi her twa pawkie een.
The lads an the lasses were deein in dizzens,
The tane killed wi luve, an the ither wi spleen ;
The ploughin, the sawin, the shearin, the mawin—
A wark was forgotten for Barochan Jean.

 

Frae the south an the north, o'er the Tweed an the Forth,
Sic comin an gangin there never was seen;
The comers were cheerie, the gangers were blearie,
Despairin or hopin for Barochan Jean.
The carlins at hame were a girnin and granin,
The bairns were a greetin frae mornin till e'en ;
They gat naethin for crowdie but runts boiled tae sowdie,
For naethin gat growin for Barochan Jean.

 

The doctors declared it was past their descrivin,
The ministers said 'twas a judgment for sin ;
But they lookit sae blae, an their hearts were sae wae,
I was sure they were deein for Barochan Jean.
The burns on roadsides were a dry wi their drinkin,
Yet a wadna sloken the drouth in their skin ;
A roun the peatstacks, an alangst the dyke backs,
E'en the win's were a sighin, “Sweet Barochan Jean.”

 

The timmer ran dune wi the makin o coffins,
Kirkyairds o their swaird were a howkit fu clean ;
Deid lovers were packit like herrin in barrels,
Sic thousan's were deein for Barochan Jean.
But mony braw thanks tae the laird o Glenbrodie,
The grass owre their graffs is now bonnie an green :
He staw the proud heart o our wanton young leddie,
An spoilt a the charms o her twa pawkie een.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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