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James Ballantine
The bonnie, bonnie bairn,
wha sits poking in the ase,
Glow'ring in the fire wi' his wee round face;
Laughing at the fuffin' lowe, what sees he there?
Ha! the young dreamer's biggin' castles in the air.
His wee chubby face, and his touzie curly pow,
Are laughing and nodding to the dancing lowe.
He'll brown his rosey cheeks, and singe his sunny hair,
Glow'ring at the imps wi' their castles in the air.
He sees muckle castles towering to the moon!
He sees little sodgers pu'ing them a' doun!
Worlds whombling up and doun, bleezing wi'a flare, -
See how he loups! as they glimmer in the air.
For a' sae sage he looks, what can the laddie ken?
He's thinking upon naething, like mony mighty men;
A wee thing mak's us think, a sma' thing mak's us stare. -
There are mair folk than him biggin' castles in the air.
Sic a night in winter may weel mak' him cauld:
His chin upon his buffy hand will soon mak' him auld;
His brow is brent sae braid, O pray that daddy Care,
Would let the wean alane wi' his castles in the air!
He'll glowre at the fire! and he'll keek at the light!
But many sparkling stars are swallow'd up by night;
Aulder een than his are glamour'd by a glare,
Hearts are broken, heads are turn'd wi' castles in the air.
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