John Frost

You’ve come early to see us this year, John Frost,
Wi’ your crispin’ an’ poutherin’ gear, John Frost,
For hedge, tower, an’ tree,
As far as I see,
Are as white as the bloom o’ the pear, John Frost.

You’re very preceese wi’ your wark, John Frost!
Altho’ ye ha’e wrought in the dark, John Frost,
For ilka fit-stap,
Frae the door to the slap,
Is braw as a new linen sark, John Frost.

There are some things about ye I like, John Frost,
And ithers that aft gar me fyke, John Frost;
For the weans, wi’ cauld taes,
Crying “shoon, stockings, claes,”
Keep us busy as bees in the byke, John Frost.

And gae ’wa’ wi’ your lang slides, I beg, John Frost!
Bairn’s banes are as bruckle’s an egg, John Frost;
For a cloit o’ a fa’
Gars them hirple awa’,
Like a hen wi’ a happity leg, John Frost.

Ye ha’e fine goings on in the north, John Frost!
Wi’ your houses o’ ice and so forth, John Frost!
Tho’ their kirn’s on the fire,
They may kirn till they tire,
Yet their butter—pray what is it worth, John Frost?

Now, your breath would be greatly improven, John Frost,
By a scone pipin’-het frae the oven, John Frost;
And your blae frosty nose
Nae beauty wad lose,
Kent ye mair baith o’ boiling and stovin’, John Frost.