Annotation:Soldier's Return (1)
SOLDIER'S RETURN [1]. AKA and see “Mill Oh (The).” English?, Scottish; Air and Reel. C Major (Harding’s, Howe): D Major (Kerr, Morison). Standard tuning (fiddle). AB (Harding’s, Morison): AAB (Howe, Kerr). The words to the song go:
When wild war's deally blast was
blawn, And gentle peace returning,
And eyes again wi' pleasure beam'd,
That had been blear'd wi' mourning.
I left the lines and tented fields,
Where lang I'd been a lodger;
A humble knap-sack a' my wealth,
A poor, but honest sodger.
A leal light heart beat in my breast,
My hands unstained wi" plunder;
And to dear Scotia, hame again,
I cheerly on did wander.
I thought upon the banks o' Coil;
I thought upon my Nancy;
I thought upon the 'witching smile,
That caught my youthfu' fancy.
At length I reach'd the bonny glen,
Where early life I sported,
I pass'd the mill and trysting thorn,
Where Nancy oft I courted.
Wha spied I but mine ain dear maid,
Down by her mother's dwelling!
And turn'd me round to hide the flood
That in my een was swelling.
Wi' altered voice, quoth I, Sweet lass
Sweet as yon hawthorn blossom,
O! happy, happy may he be,
That's dearest to thy bosom!
My purse is light, I've far to gang,
Fain wad I be thy lodger;
I've serv'd my king and country lang,
Tak pity on a sodger.
Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me.
And lovelier grew than ever;
Quoth she, A sodger ance I lo'ed,
Forget him shall I never:
Our humble cot, and namely fare,
Ye freely shall partake o't:
That gallant badge, the dear cockade;
Ye've welcome for the sake on't,
he gaz'd--she redden'd like a rose,
Syne pale like ony lily,
She sunk within my arms, and cried,
Art thou mine ain dear Willie?
By him who made yon sun and sky,
By whom true love's rewarded,
I am the man!--and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded.
The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted;
Though poor in gear, we're rich in love,
And, mair, we'se ne'er be parted.
Quo' she, My grandsire left me gowd,
A mailin plenish'd fairly;
Come then, my faithful sodger lad,
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly,
For gold the merchant ploughs the main.
The farmer ploughs the manor;
But glory is the sodger's prize;
The sodger's wealth is honour.
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger,
Remember, he's your country's stay,
In day and hour o' danger.
See note for "Mill Oh" for more information.
