THE PRESSERS
By Mary Brooksbank
There is nocht in this wide world but sorrow and care
I weary on Johnnie, but Johnnie's no there
Sae waesome and dowie, I feel like tae dee
Since the pressers hae stolen my laddie fae me
I look aroond the steading, but Johnnie's nae there
At toil in the hairst field, my hert it feels sair
When I look tae yon high hills, a tear blinds my e'e
Since the pressers hae stolen my laddie fae me
For he's far ower yon high hills and syne ower the sea
I ken nowhere my ain dear laddie micht be
In some foreign battlefield maybe he'll dee
Oh, curse on ye, Boney, took my laddie fae me
Now the bonnie larks singing mocks me in my care
But I'll go on still hoping till grey grows my hair
Oh, ye wild winds a blowing far ower the sea
Will ye blow back my bonnie lad Johnnie tae me
@Scots @soldier @pressgang
see also HIGHHILL, WEARYCUT
recorded by Ray Fisher
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SF
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