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John Frost
By William Miller

Click here to listen to this in Real Audio read by Peter D Wright

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've been very preceese wi your wark, John Frost,
Altho ye hae wrocht 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 aboot ye I like, John Frost,
An ithers that aft gar me fyke, John Frost;
For the weans, wi cauld taes, cryin 'shoon, stockins, claes' !
Keep us busy as bees in the byke, John Frost.
An to tell you I winna be blate, John Frost,
Our gudeman stops oot whiles rather late, John Frost,
An the blame's put on you, if he gets a thocht fou,
He's sae fleyed for the slippery lang gate, John Frost.
Ye hae fine goins-on in the north, John Frost
Wi your houses o ice, an sae forth, John Frost;
Tho their kirn's on the fire, they may kirn till they tire,
But their butter - pray what is it worth, John Frost?

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