Gane were but the winter cauld
Allan Cunningham
1784 to 1842
Gane were but the winter cauld,
And gane were but the snaw,
I could sleep in the wild woods,
Where primroses blaw.
Cauld's the snaw at my head,
And cauld at my feet,
And the finger o' death's at my een,
Closing them to sleep.
Let nane tell my father,
Or my mither sae dear:
I'll meet them baith in heaven.
At the spring o' the year.
Allan Cunningham's Gane were but the winter cauld
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