Classic Poem

Come awa', bairnie,
For your bawbee
Rosy cheekit apples
Ye shall hae three:
A' sae fou' o' hinny,
They drappit frae the tree;
Like your bonnie sel',
A' the sweeter they are wee.

Come awa', bairnie,
Dinna shake your head;
Ye mind me o' my ain bairn,
Lang lang dead.
Ah! for lack o' nourishment
He drappit frae the tree;
Like your bonny sel',
A' the sweeter he was wee.

Oh! auld frail folk
Are like auld fruit trees,
They canna stand the gnarl
O' the cauld winter breeze:
But heaven tak's the fruit
Tho' earth forsake the tree;
An' we mourn our fairy blossoms,
A' the sweeter they were wee.

Then come awa', bairnie,
For your bawbee
Rosy cheekit apples
Ye shall hae three:
A' sae fou' o' hinny,
They drappit frae the tree;
Like your bonny sel',
A' the sweeter they are wee.