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Mirk and rainy is the nicht, There's no a staurn in a' the carry; Lightnings gleam athwart the lift, And winds drive wi' winter's fury. Chorus: O, are ye sleepin', Maggie? O, are ye sleepin', Maggie? Let me in for loud the linn Is roarin' o'er the warlock craigie. Fearfu' soughs the boortree bank, The rifted wood roars wild and dreary. Loud the iron yett does clank, And cry of howlets makes me eerie. |
Abune my breath I daurna speak For fear I rouse your waukrife daddie; Cauld's the blast upon my cheek, O rise, rise my bonnie lady. She oped the door, she let him in, He cuist aside his dreepin' plaidie. 'Blaw your warst, ye rain and win', Since, Maggie, now I'm in aside ye. Final chorus: Now since ye're wauken, Maggie, Now since ye're wauken, Maggie, What care I for howlet's cry, For boortree bank or warlock craigie! |
| This version of an old song called 'Sleepy Maggie' was made by Robert Tannahill (1774-1810), the Paisley bard. Apprenticed to the cotton-weaving trade at the age of nine, Tannahill is said to have spent more time cobbling verses than watching his loom. Country singers in southwest Scotland rank him as one of the most gifted song writers in that great army of working-class bards who followed in the wake of Robert Burns. |
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