  Being shown, at Lockerbie, a printed programme of after-dinner proceedings at the celebration there of Mr. R. Jardine’s marriage, the writer noticed in the list the sentence that heads this page, and enquired if it were a toast or a song. When told it was the former, he said it deserved to be a song; and, acting on his own hint, crooned out the following verses on his homeward journey by rail. The farmers’ wives o’ Annandale! Gude haud them bein an’ braw; Ilk rules within her foothy hame, Like leddy in her ha’. Ilk yearns to guide her ain gudeman Wi’ love that downa fail;— They irr the wale o’ woman-kind— The wives o’ Annandale! The farmers’ wives o’ Annandale! I’ve kent their gates fu’ lang; They’re worthy weel the wine cup’s grace— Weel worthy o’ a sang. But ne’er to read their worth aricht, May toast or sang avail; They far transcend a’ rhymin’ skill— The wives o’ Annandale! The farmers’ wives o’ Annandale Shew fine at kirk an’ fair; But see them at their ain firesides— They shine the brichtest there. Wi’ gracious smiles an’ winsome words The stranger guest they hail;— They’re angels in a hamely sphere— The wives o’ Annandale! The farmers’ wives o’ Annandale! They strive frae morn till nicht, Without, within, through but an’ ben, To hand a’ rowin’ richt; To keep contentit their gudemen, Their bairnies feal an’ hale, Till baith rise up an’ ca’ them blest— The wives o’ Annandale. The chiel’ that hes in Annandale A weel-waled farm an’ wife, Has drawn twae glorious prizes frae The lucky-bag o’ life. An’ may they prosper, stock an’ store, In ever hichtinin’ scale, Whae treasure in their hames an’ hearts The wives o’ Annandale. |
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