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!"