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ePaper created 2014-04-08, 18:05:31 | version 1.29.01
76 Young man it’s hard to strive wi’ sin An’ the hardest strife o’ a’ Is where the greed o’ gain creeps in, An’ drives God’s grace awa’. Oh, it’s quick tae do, but it’s lang tae rue, When the punishment comes at last, And we would give the world tae undo, The deed that’s done an’ past. Over yon strip of meadow land, And o’er the burnie bright, Dinna ye mark the fir-trees stand, Around yon gables white? I mind it weel in my younger days, The story yet was rife: There dwelt within that lovely place, A famer an’ his wife. They sat the-gither all alone, Ane blessed the Autumn night. When the trees without, and hedge and stone Where white in the sweet moonlight. The boys an’ girls were gone doon all A wee till the blacksmith’s wake; There pass’d ane onby the window small An’ guv the door a shake. The man he up an’ open’d the door- When he had spoken a bit. A pedlar man stepped into the floor, Doon he tumbled the pack he bore,