the soldier's return
    air—“the mill, mill, o.”
    when wild war's deadly blast was blawn,
    and gentle peace returning,
    wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,
    and mony a widow mourning;
    i left the lines and tented field,
    where lang i'd been a lodger,
    my humble knapsack a' my wealth,
    a poor and honest sodger.
    a leal, light heart was in my breast,
    my hand unstain'd wi' plunder;
    and for fair scotia hame again,
    i cheery on did wander:
    i thought upon the banks o' coil,
    i thought upon my nancy,
    i thought upon the witching smile
    that caught my youthful fancy.
    at length i reach'd the bonie glen,
    where early life i sported;
    i pass'd the mill and trysting thorn,
    where nancy aft i courted:
    wha spied i but my 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' alter'd voice, h i, “sweet lass,
    sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom,
    o! happy, happy may he be,
    that's dearest to thy bosom:
    my purse is light, i've far to gang,
    and fain would be thy lodger;
    i've serv'd my king and country lang—
    take pity on a sodger.”
    sae wistfully she gaz'd on me,
    and lovelier was than ever;
    quo' she, “a sodger ance i lo'ed,
    forget him shall i never:
    our humble cot, and hamely fare,
    ye freely shall partake it;
    that gallant badge—the dear cockade,
    ye're welcome for the sake o't.”
    she gaz'd—she redden'd like a rose—
    syne pale like only lily;
    she sank within my arms, and cried,
    “art thou my ain dear willie?”
    “by him who made yon sun and sky!
    by whom true love's regarded,
    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;
    tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love,
    and mair we'se ne'er be parted.”
    quo' she, “my grandsire left me gowd,
    a mailen plenish'd fairly;
    and come, my faithfu' 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 sodgerpppp's wealth is honor:
    the brave poor sodger ne'er despise,
    nor count him as a stranger;
    remember he's his country's stay,
    in day and hour of danger.