Border Song
Foster, W. A.
Published 1843
Come listen now, ladies,— it winna be lang,
While I sing you a cannie Northumberland sang;
It will tell you o' sports that have lang been my pride,
And the games we've been haddin' in bonnie Till side;
There 's few keener o' them,—come tell me o' ane,—
For thrawing the hammer, or putting the stane.
The Cheviot bred lads may beat us for speed;
And the prize for the jumping may gang to the Tweed;
The quoits to the town, and the race to the hill;
But there's something we'll keep on the banks of the Till:
Two prizes there are,— I will yield them to nane—
The thrawing the hammer and putting the stane.
John Cole, wi' his rifle, may beat us, I trow;
William Foster now sticks to his arrow and bow;
Let them come frae the Beaumont and Tweed to the Till,
We'll match them for something at Auld Heaton Mill:
Ay, sirs, look and see—a' these medals were ta'en,
By thrawing the hammer and putting the stane.
Etal, Crookham, and Ford, have na seen sic a day,
Since the trumpet's blast raised them for Flodden's affray,
But a bard of renown has that battle-field sung;
And I tell o' the games in my ain mother tongue:
We like sport but nae fighting,—just let us alane,
When thrawing the hammer and putting the stane.
The feuds on the Borders nae langer run fierce;
Northumberland kindly shakes hands wi' the Merse:
Baith sides o' the Tweed—and a cheer for the games,
And good health to the victors, whatever their claims,
And lang may the Border lads flourish and reign,
At thrawing the hammer and putting the stane.
Execution time: 0.118 seconds