Grandmither, think not I forget, when I come back to town, An’ wander the old ways again an’ tread them up an’ down. I never smell the clover bloom, nor see the swallows pass, Without I mind how good ye were unto a little lass. I never hear the winter rain a-pelting all night through, Without I think and mind me of how cold it falls on you. And if I come not often to your bed beneath the thyme, Mayhap ’t is that I’d change wi’ ye, and gie my bed for thine, Would like to sleep in thine. I never hear the summer winds among the roses blow, Without I wonder why it was ye loved the lassie so. Ye gave me cakes and lollipops and pretty toys a score,-- I never thought I should come back and ask ye …
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