Chapter CLI: Lady Keith’s Lament

I may sit in my wee croo house,
At the rock and the reel to toil fu’ dreary;
I may think on the day that’s gane,
And sigh and sab till I grow weary.
I ne’er could brook, I ne’er could brook,
A foreign loon to own or flatter;
But I will sing a rantin’ sang,
That day our king comes owre the water.

O gin I live to see the day,
That I hae begg’d, and begg’d frae Heaven,
I’ll fling my rock and reel away,
And dance and sing frae morn till even:
For there is are I winna name,
That comes the reigning bike to scatter;
And I’ll put on my bridal gown,
That day our king comes owre the water.

I hae seen the gude auld day,
The day o’ pride and chieftain glory,
When royal Stuarts bare the sway,
And ne’er heard tell o’ Whig nor Tory.
Tho’ lyart be my locks and grey,
And eild has crooked me down--what matter?
I’ll dance and sing anither day,
That day our king comes owre the water.

A curse on dull and drawling Whig,
The whining, ranting, low deceiver,
Wi’ heart sae black, and look sae big,
And canting tongue o’ clishmaclaver!
My father was a good lord’s son,
My mother was an earl’s daughter,
And I’ll be Lady Keith again,
That day our king comes owre the water.

_Anonymous._

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