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

filename[ PRESSRS

SF

===DOCUMENT BOUNDARY