By Violet Jacob
I see the Gowk an’ the Gowk sees me
Beside a berry-bush by the aipple-tree.
Old Scots Rhyme.
‘Tib, my auntie’s a deil to wark,
Has me risin’ ‘afore the sun;
Aince her heid is abune her sark
Then the clash o’ her tongue’s begun!
Warslin’, steerin’ wi’ hens an’ swine,
Naucht kens she o’ a freend o’ mine –
But the Gowk that bides i’ the woods o’ Dun
He kens him fine!
Past the yaird an’ ahint the stye,
O the aipples grow bonnilie!
Tib, my auntie, she canna’ spy
Wha comes creepin’ to kep wi’ me.
Aye! she’d sort him, for, dod, she’s fell!
Whisht nou, Jimmie, an’ hide yersel’
An’ the wice-like bird i’ the aipple-tree
He winna’ tell!
Aprile-month, or the aipples flower,
Tib, my auntie, will rage an’ ca’;
Jimmie lad, she may rin an’ glower –
What care I? We’ll be far awa’!
Let her seek me the leelang day,
Wha’s to tell her the road we’ll gae?
For the cannie Gowk, tho’ he kens it a’,
He winna’ say!