(_In Scotland it was an old custom for the young people on Easter
morning to hunt for eggs of the wild fowl_)
Oh, fine it is at Easter
To hunt the wild fowl's nest!
A rush o' wings--a feather
From aff a broodin' breast--
A twinkle o' the heather--
An' weel ye ken the rest!
Before we've ta'en a dewbit,
A' in the morning gray,
It's callin' ane anither
In haste to be away--
It's cryin', "Wish me, mither,
The best luck o' the day!"
An' mither's gi'en us kisses,
Wi' little sighs between;
An' if a teardrop's blinkin'
Within her tender een,
It's, maybe, that she's thinkin'
O' Easters that hae been!
Then lads and lassies scatter,
To hunt the eggs sae white;
They thither run, an' hither,
An' shout in their delight!
An' if twa hunt thegither,
They ken it isna right!
No laddie to a lassie
Of hidden nest may tell;
Nor lass of laddie ask it,
But she maun seek hersel'!
Wha brings the fullest basket--
Guid luck wi' him shall dwell!
Oh, fine it is at Easter
To hunt the wild fowl's nest;
An' when the sun is beamin',
It's hame we'll gang in haste;
For now the brose is steamin,'
The chair for us is placed!
But oh! for a' the pleasure,
Ae thing I canna thole--
The puir wild birdie's greetin'--
It's pierced my verra soul!
I hear ilk ane repeatin',
"It was my eggs ye stole!"