by: Christie, Frank
It's nicht, an at the kitchie fire I'm sittin aa ma leen,
A teem bowl, I haud in ae haun, in the ither I've ma speen,
The bairns are nae lang beddit, Jean's gaen throw tae stop their din,
An here in peace an quateness, I've jist hid ma murrel in.
Ae fit it rists upon' the buik, the ither on the swey,
Wi een hauf clos't I sit an dose, an think o times gaen by
I'm thinkin o the nichts lang syne, fin as a wee bit loon,
Aside ma granny's chair I sat, busk't in ma flannen goon.
She hid a muckle quorter birslin hett afore the fire,
Tae be ready fin the lassie brocht the milk in fae the byre.
She got her bowl o new milk, murrelt in her breid, an seen,
She liftit me upon her knee, an baith o's hid a speen.
'Losh laddie! Foo yer growin', auld grannie eest tae say
I ken an odds upon ye jist ilkie ither day.
Aye mine fit I say till ye noo, an stick in tae yer meal
An gin it be His will, ye'll grow intae a muckle chiel.
An faith she wisna far wrang , fur noo I'm ower sax feet,
Five an forty roon the chest an teuch as ony peat.
I canna stammack gulshachs that ye get ooto a tin,
Jist ma brose, an milk an tatties, an at nicht, ma murrel-in