Crowdie
Oh, that I had ne’er been married, I wad never had nae care; Now I’ve gotten wife and bairns, They cry Crowdie! ever mair.
Crowdie ance, crowdie twice, Three times crowdie in a day; Gin ye crowdie ony mair, Ye’ll crowdie a’ my meal away.
Quoting the stanzas as an old ballad in a letter to his friend, Mrs. Dunlop, in December, 1795, the poet Burns wrote:—“There had much need to be many pleasures annexed to the states of husband and father, for, God knows, they have many peculiar cares. I cannot describe to you the anxious, sleepless hours these ties frequently give me. I see a train of helpless little folks; me and my exertions all their stay; and on what a brittle thread does the life of man hang! If I am nipt off at the command of Fate, even in all the vigour of manhood, as I am—such things happen every day—Gracious God! what would become of my little flock? ’Tis here that I envy your people of fortune. A father on his death-bed, taking an ever-lasting leave of his children, has indeed woe enough; but the man of competent fortune leaves his sons and daughters independency and friends; while I—but I shall run distracted if I think any longer on the subject!” So might we all. Then, away with it, and let us have a more lightsome spring.