There's burstin’ buds on the larick now
A’ the birds are paired an’ biggin’;
Saft soughin’ win's dry the dubby howe,
An’ the eildit puir are thiggin’.
The whip-the-cat‘ s aff fae hoose to hoose,
Wi’ his oxtered lap-buird lampin’,
An’ hard ahint, wi’ the shears an’ goose,
His wee, pechin’‘ prentice trampin’.
The laird's approach gets a coat o’ san’,
When the grieve can spare a yokin’;
On the market stance there's a tinker clan,
An’ the guidwife's hens are clockin’.
The mason's harp is set up on en’,
He's harlin’ the fire-hoose gable;
The sheep are aff to the hills again
As hard as the lambs are able.
There's spots o’ white on the lang brown park,
Where the sacks o’ seed are sittin’;
An’ wily craws fae the dawn to dark
At the harrow tail are flittin’.
The liftward lark lea's the dewy seggs,
In the hedge the yeldrin‘ s singin’;
The teuchat cries for her harried eggs,
In the bothy window hingin’.
Nae snaw-bree now in the Leochel Burn,
Nae a water baillie goupin’ —
But hear the whirr o’ the miller's pirn,
The plash where the trouts are loupin’.