THE NEST IN THE HEATHER

Oh, fine it is at Easter

To hunt the wild fowl's nest!

A rush o’ wings — a feather

From aff a broodin’ breast —

A twinkle o’ the heather —

An’ weel ye ken the rest!

Before we've ta'en a dewbit,

A’ in the morning gray,

It's callin’ ane anither

In haste to be away —

It's cryin’, “Wish me, mither,

The best luck o’ the day!”

An’ mither's gi'en us kisses,

Wi’ little sighs between;

An’ if a teardrop's blinkin’

Within her tender een,

It's, maybe, that she's thinkin’

O’ Easters that hae been!

Then lads and lassies scatter,

To hunt the eggs sae white;

They thither run, an’ hither,

An’ shout in their delight!

An’ if twa hunt thegither,

They ken it isna right!

No laddie to a lassie

Of hidden nest may tell;

Nor lass of laddie ask it,

But she maun seek hersel’!

Wha brings the fullest basket —

Guid luck wi’ him shall dwell!

Oh, fine it is at Easter

To hunt the wild fowl's nest;

An’ when the sun is beamin’,

It's hame we'll gang in haste;

For now the brose is steamin,’

The chair for us is placed!

But oh! for a’ the pleasure,

Ae thing I canna thole —

The puir wild birdie's greetin’ —

It's pierced my verra soul!

I hear ilk ane repeatin’,

“It was my eggs ye stole!”