The Mariner's Wife by WM. Julius Mickle

THIS WAS A FAVOURITE RECITATION OF THE LATE
CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN.


AND are ye sure the news is true?

And are ye sure he's weel?

Is this a time to think o' wark?

Make haste, lay by your wheel;

Is this a time to spin a thread,

When Colin's at the door?

Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,

And see him come ashore.

 

For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck at a';

There's little pleasure in the house

When our gudeman's awa'.

And gie to me my bigonet,

My bishop's satin gown;

For I maun tell the baillie's wife,

That Colin's in the town.

My Turkey slippers maun gae on,

My stockings pearly blue;

It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,

For he's baith leal and true.

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,

Put on the mukle pot;

Gie little Kate her button gown

And Jock his Sunday coat;

And mak their shoon as black as slaes,

Their hose as white as snaw;

It's a' to please my own gudeman,

For he's been long awa.

There's twa fat hens upo' the coop,

Been fed this month and mair;

Mak haste and thraw their necks about,

That Colin weel may fare;

And mak our table neat and clean,

Let everything look braw,

For wha can tell how Colin fared

When he was far awa?

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,

His breath like caller air;

His very foot has music in't

As he comes up the stair.

And shall I see his face again?

And shall I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,

In troth I'm like to greet!

 

The cold blasts o' the winter wind,

That thirléd through my heart,

They're a' blown by, I hae him safe,

'Till death we'll never part;

But what puts parting in my head?

It may be far awa!

The present moment is our ain,

The neist we never saw.

Since Colin's weel, and weel content,

I hae nae mair to crave;

And gin I live to keep him sae,

I'm blest aboov the lave.

And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,

In troth I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae lack at a';

There's little pleasure in the house

When our gudeman's awa.