The Battle of Prestonpans (1824, Stirling)/The Minstrel

For other versions of this work, see The Minstrel.
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THE MINSTRAL.

Keen blaws the wind o'er Donnacht-head,The snaw rives drives snellie thro' the dale;The Gaberlunzie (illegible text)irls my seeckAnd, shiv ri g tells his warfu' tale.
Cauld is the sight, let me inA dinne let your minstrel fa',And di na let is his winning sheetBe sae hi g but a wreath o' snaw
Full (illegible text)ninety winters seenAnd pip'd whar gor-cocks whirring flew, ​And mony a day ye've danc'd I ween,To iilts which from my drone I blew.
My Eppie wak'd, and soon she cried,Get up gudeman, and let him in;For we-l ye ken, the winter night,Was short when he began his din.
My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet,E'en tho she bans and scaulds a wee;But when it's turned to sorrow's tale,O haith it's doubly dear to me.
Come in, auld carl I'll steer my fire,I'll mak it steer a bonny flame;Your bluid is this ye've (illegible text)int you ga'e,You should na stray sae far free hame,
Nae hame have I, the minstrel said,Sae party-strife o'erturned my ha';And weeping, at the eve of life,I wander through a wreath of snaw.

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