Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west,

The drift is driving sairly;

Sae loud and shill's I hear the blast—

I'm sure it's winter fairly.

Chorus.—Up in the morning's no for me,

Up in the morning early;

When a' the hills are covered wi' snaw,

I'm sure it's winter fairly.

The birds sit chittering in the thorn,

A' day they fare but sparely;

And lang's the night frae e'en to morn—

I'm sure it's winter fairly.

Up in the morning's, &c.

How Long And Dreary Is The Night

How long and dreary is the night,

When I am frae my dearie!

I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn,

Tho' I were ne'er so weary:

I sleepless lie frae e'en to morn,

Tho' I were ne'er sae weary!

When I think on the happy days

I spent wi' you my dearie:

And now what lands between us lie,

How can I be but eerie!

And now what lands between us lie,

How can I be but eerie!

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours,

As ye were wae and weary!

It wasna sae ye glinted by,

When I was wi' my dearie!

It wasna sae ye glinted by,

When I was wi' my dearie!