The Bonnet Dressers

Farewell to Stewarton
BY BOBBY DEANS

The hauns upon the eight-day clock are are slowly turning roon,

Tae mark the hour when I maun leave the dear auld Bunnet Toun,
I'm sittin' on the kist that hauds a' my 'worldly gear,

And as I write this last farewell, doon draps the bitter tear.

Nae mair I'll see the Coreshill when spring sends forth its bloom,

The thorntreebuskit like a bride and the bonnie yellow broom,

There wi' my love I aft hae sat beside the Castle wa',

While the mavis sang sae sweetly at the gloamin's gentle fa'.

Frae the Howm at Lainshaw where the Seven Sisters staun,
The laverock will rise tae sing beneath the crimson dawn,

Each year the primrose will return to scent its native air,

But I will be in exile faur frae the scenes sae fair.

Within the Auld Kirk yaird I stood tae bid a last adieu,

The ane I lo'ed lies sleeping there, ane baith kind and true,
Abune her grave the gowans wave and, oh, my he'rt is sair,
For she was pure and modest like the bonnie gowans there.

Tis hard tae part frae a' sae dear, each fond remembered scene,

Tae think among my kith and kin I've spent my last yestreen,

But aye within this breast o' mine those memories I will keep,

They will haunt me in that exile sae far across the deep.

The hauns upon the eight-day clock tell me the hour is here,

And on the paper as I write, doon draps the bitter tear,

Between my sighs I murmur as I gie the last embrace,

Farewell tae Stewarton that I lo'e, farewell each weel-kent face.