I do Confess Thou Art Sae Fair.
Alteration of an Old
Poem.
I Do confess thou art
sae fair,
I was been o’er
the lugs in luve,
Had I na found
the slightest prayer
That lips could speak
thy heart could muve.
I do confess thee sweet,
but find
Thou art so thriftless
o’ thy sweets,
Thy favours are the
silly wind
That kisses ilka thing
it meets.
See yonder rosebud,
rich in dew,
Amang its native briers
sae coy;
How sune it tines its
scent and hue,
When pu’d and
worn a common toy.
Sic fate ere lang
shall thee betide,
Tho’ thou may
gaily bloom awhile;
And sune thou shalt
be thrown aside,
Like ony common weed
and vile.
Lines On Fergusson, The Poet.
Ill-fated genius!
Heaven-taught Fergusson!
What heart that feels
and will not yield a tear,
To think Life’s
sun did set e’er well begun
To shed its influence
on thy bright career.
O why should truest
Worth and Genius pine
Beneath the iron grasp
of Want and Woe,
While titled knaves
and idiot Greatness shine
In all the splendour
Fortune can bestow?
The Weary Pund O’ Tow.
Chorus. The
weary pund, the weary pund,
The weary pund o’
tow;
I think my wife will
end her life,
Before she spin her
tow.
I bought my wife a stane
o’ lint,
As gude as e’er
did grow,
And a’ that she
has made o’ that
Is ae puir pund o’
tow.
The weary pund, &c.
There sat a bottle in
a bole,
Beyont the ingle low;
And aye she took the
tither souk,
To drouk the stourie
tow.
The weary pund, &c.
Quoth I, For shame,
ye dirty dame,
Gae spin your tap o’
tow!
She took the rock, and
wi’ a knock,
She brak it o’er
my pow.
The weary pund, &c.
At last her feet I
sang to see’t!
Gaed foremost o’er
the knowe,
And or I wad anither
jad,
I’ll wallop in
a tow.
The weary pund, &c.
When She Cam’ Ben She Bobbed.
O when she cam’
ben she bobbed fu’ law,
O when she cam’
ben she bobbed fu’ law,
And when she cam’
ben, she kiss’d Cockpen,
And syne denied she
did it at a’.
And was na Cockpen
right saucy witha’?
And was na Cockpen
right saucy witha’?
In leaving the daughter
of a lord,
And kissin’ a
collier lassie an’ a’!
O never look down, my
lassie, at a’,
O never look down, my
lassie, at a’,
Thy lips are as sweet,
and thy figure complete,
As the finest dame in
castle or ha’.
Tho’ thou has
nae silk, and holland sae sma’,
Tho’ thou has
nae silk, and holland sae sma’,
Thy coat and thy sark
are thy ain handiwark,
And lady Jean was never
sae braw.
Scroggam, My Dearie.
There was a wife wonn’d
in Cockpen, Scroggam;
She brew’d gude
ale for gentlemen;
Sing auld Cowl lay ye
down by me,
Scroggam, my dearie,
ruffum.
The gudewife’s
dochter fell in a fever, Scroggam;
The priest o’
the parish he fell in anither;
Sing auld Cowl lay ye
down by me,
Scroggam, my dearie,
ruffum.
They laid the twa i’
the bed thegither, Scroggam;
That the heat o’
the tane might cool the tither;
Sing auld Cowl, lay
ye down by me,
Scroggam, my dearie,
ruffum.
My Collier Laddie.
“Whare live ye,
my bonie lass?
And tell me what they
ca’ ye;”
“My name,”
she says, “is mistress Jean,
And I follow the Collier
laddie.”
“My name, she
says, &c.
“See you not yon
hills and dales
The sun shines on sae
brawlie;
They a’ are mine,
and they shall be thine,
Gin ye’ll leave
your Collier laddie.
“They a’
are mine, &c.
“Ye shall gang
in gay attire,
Weel buskit up sae gaudy;
And ane to wait on every
hand,
Gin ye’ll leave
your Collier laddie.”
“And ane to wait,
&c.
“Tho’ ye
had a’ the sun shines on,
And the earth conceals
sae lowly,
I wad turn my back on
you and it a’,
And embrace my Collier
laddie.
“I wad turn my
back, &c.
“I can win my
five pennies in a day,
An’ spen’t
at night fu’ brawlie:
And make my bed in the
collier’s neuk,
And lie down wi’
my Collier laddie.
“And make my bed,
&c.
“Love for love is the bargain
for me, Tho’ the wee cot-house should haud
me; and the warld before me to win my bread,
And fair fa’ my Collier laddie!”
“And the warld before me, &c.
Sic A Wife As Willie Had.
Willie Wastle dwalt
on Tweed,
The spot they ca’d
it Linkumdoddie;
Willie was a wabster
gude,
Could stown a clue wi’
ony body:
He had a wife was dour
and din,
O Tinkler Maidgie was
her mither;
Sic a wife as Willie
had,
I wad na gie a
button for her!
She has an e’e,
she has but ane,
The cat has twa the
very colour;
Five rusty teeth, forbye
a stump,
A clapper tongue wad
deave a miller:
A whiskin beard about
her mou’,
Her nose and chin they
threaten ither;
Sic a wife as Willie
had,
I wadna gie a button
for her!
She’s bow-hough’d,
she’s hein-shin’d,
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed
shorter;
She’s twisted
right, she’s twisted left,
To balance fair in ilka
quarter:
She has a lump upon
her breast,
The twin o’ that
upon her shouther;
Sic a wife as Willie
had,
I wadna gie a button
for her!
Auld baudrons by the
ingle sits,
An’ wi’
her loof her face a-washin;
But Willie’s wife
is nae sae trig,
She dights her grunzie
wi’ a hushion;
Her walie nieves
like midden-creels,
Her face wad fyle the
Logan Water;
Sic a wife as Willie
had,
I wadna gie a button
for her!
Lady Mary Ann.
O lady Mary Ann looks
o’er the Castle wa’,
She saw three bonie
boys playing at the ba’,
The youngest he was
the flower amang them a’,
My bonie laddie’s
young, but he’s growin’ yet.
O father, O father,
an ye think it fit,
We’ll send him
a year to the college yet,
We’ll sew a green
ribbon round about his hat,
And that will let them
ken he’s to marry yet.
Lady Mary Ann was a
flower in the dew,
Sweet was its smell
and bonie was its hue,
And the longer it blossom’d
the sweeter it grew,
For the lily in the
bud will be bonier yet.
Young Charlie Cochran
was the sprout of an aik,
Bonie and bloomin’
and straught was its make,
The sun took delight
to shine for its sake,
And it will be the brag
o’ the forest yet.
The simmer is gane when
the leaves they were green,
And the days are awa’
that we hae seen,
But far better days
I trust will come again;
For my bonie laddie’s
young, but he’s growin’ yet.
Kellyburn Braes.
There lived a carl in
Kellyburn Braes,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
And he had a wife was
the plague of his days,
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
Ae day as the carl gaed
up the lang glen,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
He met with the Devil,
says, “How do you fen?”
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
I’ve got a bad
wife, sir, that’s a’ my complaint,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
“For, savin your
presence, to her ye’re a saint,”
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
It’s neither your
stot nor your staig I shall crave,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
“But gie me your
wife, man, for her I must have,”
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
“O welcome most
kindly!” the blythe carl said,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
“But if ye can
match her ye’re waur than ye’re ca’d,”
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
The Devil has got the
auld wife on his back,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
And, like a poor pedlar,
he’s carried his pack,
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
He’s carried her
hame to his ain hallan door,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
Syne bade her gae in,
for a bitch, and a whore,
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
Then straight he makes
fifty, the pick o’ his band,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme:
Turn out on her guard
in the clap o’ a hand,
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
The carlin gaed thro’
them like ony wud bear,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
Whae’er she gat
hands on cam near her nae mair,
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
A reekit wee deevil
looks over the wa’,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
“O help, maister,
help, or she’ll ruin us a’!”
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
The Devil he swore by
the edge o’ his knife,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
He pitied the man that
was tied to a wife,
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
The Devil he swore by
the kirk and the bell,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
He was not in wedlock,
thank Heav’n, but in hell,
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
Then Satan has travell’d
again wi’ his pack,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
And to her auld husband
he’s carried her back,
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
I hae been a Devil the
feck o’ my life,
Hey, and the rue grows
bonie wi’ thyme;
“But ne’er
was in hell till I met wi’ a wife,”
And the thyme it is
wither’d, and rue is in prime.
The Slave’s Lament.
It was in sweet Senegal
that my foes did me enthral,
For the lands of Virginia, ginia,
O:
Torn from that lovely
shore, and must never see it more;
And alas! I am
weary, weary O:
Torn from that lovely
shore, and must never see it more;
And alas! I am
weary, weary O.
All on that charming
coast is no bitter snow and frost,
Like the lands of Virginia, ginia,
O:
There streams for ever
flow, and there flowers for ever blow,
And alas! I am
weary, weary O:
There streams for ever
flow, and there flowers for ever blow,
And alas! I am
weary, weary O:
The burden I must bear,
while the cruel scourge I fear,
In the lands of Virginia, ginia,
O;
And I think on friends
most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear,
And alas! I am
weary, weary O:
And I think on friends
most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear,
And alas! I am
weary, weary O:
O Can Ye Labour Lea?
Chorus O
can ye labour lea, young man,
O can ye labour lea?
It fee nor bountith
shall us twine
Gin ye can labour lea.
I fee’d a man
at Michaelmas,
Wi’ airle pennies
three;
But a’ the faut
I had to him,
He could na labour
lea,
O can ye labour lea,
&c.
O clappin’s gude
in Febarwar,
An’ kissin’s
sweet in May;
But my delight’s
the ploughman lad,
That weel can labour
lea,
O can ye labour lea,
&c.
O kissin is the key
o’ luve,
And clappin’ is
the lock;
An’ makin’
o’s the best thing yet,
That e’er a young
thing gat.
O can ye labour lea,
&c.
The Deuks Dang O’er My Daddie.
The bairns gat out wi’ an unco
shout, The deuks dang o’er my daddie, O!
The fien-ma-care, quo’ the feirrie auld
wife, He was but a paidlin’ body, O!
He paidles out, and he paidles in, rn’
he paidles late and early, O! This seven
lang years I hae lien by his side, An’
he is but a fusionless carlie, O.
O haud your tongue,
my feirrie auld wife,
O haud your tongue,
now Nansie, O:
I’ve seen the
day, and sae hae ye,
Ye wad na ben
sae donsie, O.
I’ve seen the
day ye butter’d my brose,
And cuddl’d me
late and early, O;
But downa-do’s
come o’er me now,
And oh, I find it sairly,
O!
The Deil’s Awa Wi’ The Exciseman.
The deil cam fiddlin’
thro’ the town,
And danc’d awa
wi’ th’ Exciseman,
And ilka wife cries,
“Auld Mahoun,
I wish you luck o’
the prize, man.”
Chorus The
deil’s awa, the deil’s awa,
The deil’s awa
wi’ the Exciseman,
He’s danc’d
awa, he’s danc’d awa,
He’s danc’d
awa wi’ the Exciseman.
We’ll mak our
maut, and we’ll brew our drink,
We’ll laugh, sing,
and rejoice, man,
And mony braw thanks
to the meikle black deil,
That danc’d awa
wi’ th’ Exciseman.
The deil’s awa,
&c.
There’s threesome
reels, there’s foursome reels,
There’s hornpipes
and strathspeys, man,
But the ae best dance
ere came to the land
Was the deil’s
awa wi’ the Exciseman.
The deil’s awa,
&c.
The Country Lass.
In simmer, when the
hay was mawn,
And corn wav’d
green in ilka field,
While claver blooms
white o’er the lea
And roses blaw in ilka
beild!
Blythe Bessie in the
milking shiel,
Says “I’ll
be wed, come o’t what will”:
Out spake a dame in
wrinkled eild;
“O’ gude
advisement comes nae ill.
“It’s ye
hae wooers mony ane,
And lassie, ye’re
but young ye ken;
Then wait a wee, and
cannie wale
A routhie butt, a routhie
ben;
There’s Johnie
o’ the Buskie-glen,
Fu’ is his barn,
fu’ is his byre;
Take this frae me, my
bonie hen,
It’s plenty beets
the luver’s fire.”
“For Johnie o’
the Buskie-glen,
I dinna care a single
flie;
He lo’es sae weel
his craps and kye,
He has nae love to spare
for me;
But blythe’s the
blink o’ Robie’s e’e,
And weel I wat he lo’es
me dear:
Ae blink o’ him
I wad na gie
For Buskie-glen and
a’ his gear.”
“O thoughtless
lassie, life’s a faught;
The canniest gate, the
strife is sair;
But aye fu’ han’t
is fechtin’ best,
A hungry care’s
an unco care:
But some will spend
and some will spare,
An’ wilfu’
folk maun hae their will;
Syne as ye brew, my
maiden fair,
Keep mind that ye maun
drink the yill.”
“O gear will buy
me rigs o’ land,
And gear will buy me
sheep and kye;
But the tender heart
o’ leesome love,
The gowd and siller
canna buy;
We may be poor Robie
and I
Light is the burden
love lays on;
Content and love brings
peace and joy
What mair hae Queens
upon a throne?”
Bessy And Her Spinnin’ Wheel.
O Leeze me on my spinnin’
wheel,
And leeze me on my rock
and reel;
Frae tap to tae that
cleeds me bien,
And haps me biel and
warm at e’en;
I’ll set me down
and sing and spin,
While laigh descends
the simmer sun,
Blest wi’ content,
and milk and meal,
O leeze me on my spinnin’
wheel.
On ilka hand the burnies
trot,
And meet below my theekit
cot;
The scented birk and
hawthorn white,
Across the pool their
arms unite,
Alike to screen the
birdie’s nest,
And little fishes’
caller rest;
The sun blinks kindly
in the beil’,
Where blythe I turn
my spinnin’ wheel.
On lofty aiks the cushats
wail,
And Echo cons the doolfu’
tale;
The lintwhites in the
hazel braes,
Delighted, rival ither’s
lays;
The craik amang the
claver hay,
The pairtrick whirring
o’er the ley,
The swallow jinkin’
round my shiel,
Amuse me at my spinnin’
wheel.
Wi’ sma’
to sell, and less to buy,
Aboon distress, below
envy,
O wha wad leave this
humble state,
For a’ the pride
of a’ the great?
Amid their flairing,
idle toys,
Amid their cumbrous,
dinsome joys,
Can they the peace and
pleasure feel
Of Bessy at her spinnin’
wheel?
Love For Love.
Ithers seek they ken
na what,
Features, carriage,
and a’ that;
Gie me love in her I
court,
Love to love maks a’
the sport.
Let love sparkle in
her e’e;
Let her lo’e nae
man but me;
That’s the tocher-gude
I prize,
There the luver’s
treasure lies.
Saw Ye Bonie Lesley.
O saw ye bonie Lesley,
As she gaed o’er
the Border?
She’s gane, like
Alexander,
To spread her conquests
farther.
To see her is to love
her,
And love but her for
ever;
For Nature made her
what she is,
And never made anither!
Thou art a queen, fair
Lesley,
Thy subjects, we before
thee;
Thou art divine, fair
Lesley,
The hearts o’
men adore thee.
The deil he could na
scaith thee,
Or aught that wad belang
thee;
He’d look into
thy bonie face,
And say “I
canna wrang thee!”
The Powers aboon will
tent thee,
Misfortune sha’na
steer thee;
Thou’rt like themselves
sae lovely,
That ill they’ll
ne’er let near thee.
Return again, fair Lesley,
Return to Caledonie!
That we may brag we
hae a lass
There’s nane again
sae bonie.
Fragment Of Song.
No cold approach, no
altered mien,
Just what would make
suspicion start;
No pause the dire extremes
between,
He made me blest and
broke my heart.
I’ll Meet Thee On The Lea Rig.
When o’er the
hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin time is
near, my jo,
And owsen frae the furrow’d
field
Return sae dowf and
weary O;
Down by the burn, where
birken buds
Wi’ dew are hangin
clear, my jo,
I’ll meet thee
on the lea-rig,
My ain kind Dearie O.
At midnight hour, in
mirkest glen,
I’d rove, and
ne’er be eerie, O,
If thro’ that
glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind Dearie O;
Altho’ the night
were ne’er sae wild,
And I were ne’er
sae weary O,
I’ll meet thee
on the lea-rig,
My ain kind Dearie O.
The hunter lo’es
the morning sun;
To rouse the mountain
deer, my jo;
At noon the fisher seeks
the glen
Adown the burn to steer,
my jo:
Gie me the hour o’
gloamin’ grey,
It maks my heart sae
cheery O,
To meet thee on the
lea-rig,
My ain kind Dearie O.
My Wife’s A Winsome Wee Thing.
Air “My
Wife’s a Wanton Wee Thing.”
Chorus. She
is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee
thing,
She is a lo’esome
wee thing,
This dear wee wife o’
mine.
I never saw a fairer,
I never lo’ed
a dearer,
And neist my heart I’ll
wear her,
For fear my jewel tine,
She is a winsome, &c.
The warld’s wrack
we share o’t;
The warstle and the
care o’t;
Wi’ her I’ll
blythely bear it,
And think my lot divine.
She is a winsome, &c.
Highland Mary.
Tune “Katherine
Ogie.”
Ye banks, and braes,
and streams around
The castle o’
Montgomery!
Green be your woods,
and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie:
There Simmer first unfauld
her robes,
And there the langest
tarry;
For there I took the
last Farewell
O’ my sweet Highland
Mary.
How sweetly bloom’d
the gay, green birk,
How rich the hawthorn’s
blossom,
As underneath their
fragrant shade,
I clasp’d her
to my bosom!
The golden Hours on
angel wings,
Flew o’er me and
my Dearie;
For dear to me, as light
and life,
Was my sweet Highland
Mary.
Wi’ mony a vow,
and lock’d embrace,
Our parting was fu’
tender;
And, pledging aft to
meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;
But oh! fell Death’s
untimely frost,
That nipt my Flower
sae early!
Now green’s the
sod, and cauld’s the clay
That wraps my Highland
Mary!
O pale, pale now, those
rosy lips,
I aft hae kiss’d
sae fondly!
And clos’d for
aye, the sparkling glance
That dwalt on me sae
kindly!
And mouldering now in
silent dust,
That heart that lo’ed
me dearly!
But still within my
bosom’s core
Shall live my Highland
Mary.
Auld Rob Morris.
There’s Auld Rob
Morris that wons in yon glen,
He’s the King
o’ gude fellows, and wale o’ auld men;
He has gowd in his coffers,
he has owsen and kine,
And ae bonie lass, his
dautie and mine.
She’s fresh as
the morning, the fairest in May;
She’s sweet as
the ev’ning amang the new hay;
As blythe and as artless
as the lambs on the lea,
And dear to my heart
as the light to my e’e.
But oh! she’s
an Heiress, auld Robin’s a laird,
And my daddie has nought
but a cot-house and yard;
A wooer like me maunna
hope to come speed,
The wounds I must hide
that will soon be my dead.
The day comes to me,
but delight brings me nane;
The night comes to me,
but my rest it is gane;
I wander my lane like
a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart
it wad burst in my breast.
O had she but been of
a lower degree,
I then might hae hop’d
she wad smil’d upon me!
O how past descriving
had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction
nae words can express.
The Rights Of Woman.
An Occasional Address.
Spoken by Miss Fontenelle
on her benefit night, November 26, 1792.
While Europe’s
eye is fix’d on mighty things,
The fate of Empires
and the fall of Kings;
While quacks of State
must each produce his plan,
And even children lisp
the Rights of Man;
Amid this mighty fuss
just let me mention,
The Rights of Woman
merit some attention.
First, in the Sexes’
intermix’d connection,
One sacred Right of
Woman is, protection.
The tender flower that
lifts its head, elate,
Helpless, must fall
before the blasts of Fate,
Sunk on the earth, defac’d
its lovely form,
Unless your shelter
ward th’ impending storm.
Our second Right but
needless here is caution,
To keep that right inviolate’s
the fashion;
Each man of sense has
it so full before him,
He’d die before
he’d wrong it ’tis decorum.
There was, indeed, in
far less polish’d days,
A time, when rough rude
man had naughty ways,
Would swagger, swear,
get drunk, kick up a riot,
Nay even thus invade
a Lady’s quiet.
Now, thank our stars!
those Gothic times are fled;
Now, well-bred men and
you are all well-bred
Most justly think (and
we are much the gainers)
Such conduct neither
spirit, wit, nor manners.
For Right the third,
our last, our best, our dearest,
That right to fluttering
female hearts the nearest;
Which even the Rights
of Kings, in low prostration,
Most humbly own ’tis
dear, dear admiration!
In that blest sphere
alone we live and move;
There taste that life
of life immortal love.
Smiles, glances, sighs,
tears, fits, flirtations, airs;
’Gainst such an
host what flinty savage dares,
When awful Beauty joins
with all her charms
Who is so rash as rise
in rebel arms?
But truce with kings,
and truce with constitutions,
With bloody armaments
and revolutions;
Let Majesty your first
attention summon,
Ah! ca ira!
The Majesty Of Woman!
Epigram On Seeing Miss Fontenelle
In A Favourite Character.
Sweet naïveté of feature,
Simple, wild, enchanting
elf,
Not to thee, but thanks
to Nature,
Thou art acting but
thyself.
Wert thou awkward, stiff,
affected,
Spurning Nature, torturing
art;
Loves and Graces all
rejected,
Then indeed thou’d’st
act a part.
Extempore On Some Commemorations Of Thomson.
Dost thou not rise,
indignant shade,
And smile wi’
spurning scorn,
When they wha wad hae
starved thy life,
Thy senseless turf adorn?
Helpless, alane, thou
clamb the brae,
Wi’ meikle honest
toil,
And claught th’
unfading garland there
Thy sair-worn, rightful
spoil.
And wear it thou! and
call aloud
This axiom undoubted
Would thou hae Nobles’
patronage?
First learn to live
without it!
To whom hae much, more
shall be given,
Is every Great man’s
faith;
But he, the helpless,
needful wretch,
Shall lose the mite
he hath.
Duncan Gray.
Duncan Gray cam’
here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
On blythe Yule-night
when we were fou,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Maggie coost her head
fu’ heigh,
Look’d asklent
and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand
abeigh;
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Duncan fleech’d
and Duncan pray’d;
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Meg was deaf as Ailsa
Craig,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t:
Duncan sigh’d
baith out and in,
Grat his e’en
baith blear’t an’ blin’,
Spak o’ lowpin
o’er a linn;
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Time and Chance are
but a tide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Slighted love is sair
to bide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t:
Shall I like a fool,
quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie
die?
She may gae to France
for me!
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
How it comes let doctors
tell,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t;
Meg grew sick, as he
grew hale,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Something in her bosom
wrings,
For relief a sigh she
brings:
And oh! her een they
spak sic things!
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Duncan was a lad o’
grace,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t:
Maggie’s was a
piteous case,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t:
Duncan could na
be her death,
Swelling Pity smoor’d
his wrath;
Now they’re crouse
and canty baith,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Here’s A Health To Them That’s Awa.
Here’s a health
to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health
to them that’s awa;
And wha winna wish gude
luck to our cause,
May never gude luck
be their fa’!
It’s gude to be
merry and wise,
It’s gude to be
honest and true;
It’s gude to support
Caledonia’s cause,
And bide by the buff
and the blue.
Here’s a health
to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health
to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health
to Charlie^1 the chief o’ the clan,
Altho’ that his
band be but sma’!
May Liberty meet wi’
success!
May Prudence protect
her frae evil!
May tyrants and tyranny
tine i’ the mist,
And wander their way
to the devil!
Here’s a health
to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health
to them that’s awa;
Here’s a health
to Tammie,^2 the Norlan’ laddie,
That lives at the lug
o’ the law!
Here’s freedom
to them that wad read,
Here’s freedom
to them that wad write,
There’s nane ever
fear’d that the truth should be heard,
But they whom the truth
would indite.
Here’s a Health
to them that’s awa,
An’ here’s
to them that’s awa!
Here’s to Maitland
and Wycombe, let wha doesna like ’em
Be built in a hole in
the wa’;
Here’s timmer
that’s red at the heart
Here’s fruit that
is sound at the core;
And may he be that wad
turn the buff and blue coat
Be turn’d to the
back o’ the door.
Here’s a health
to them that’s awa,
Here’s a health
to them that’s awa;
Here’s chieftain
M’Leod, a chieftain worth gowd,
Tho’ bred amang
mountains o’ snaw;
Here’s friends
on baith sides o’ the firth,
And friends on baith
sides o’ the Tweed;
And wha wad betray old
Albion’s right,
May they never eat of
her bread!
A Tippling Ballad.
On the Duke of Brunswick’s Breaking up his Camp,
and the defeat of the
Austrians, by Dumourier, November 1792.
When Princes and Prelates,
And hot-headed zealots,
A’Europe had set
in a low, a low,
The poor man lies down,
Nor envies a crown,
And comforts himself
as he dow, as he dow,
And comforts himself
as he dow.
The black-headed eagle,
As keen as a beagle,
He hunted o’er
height and o’er howe,
In the braes o’
Gemappe,
He fell in a trap,
E’en let him come
out as he dow, dow, dow,
E’en let him come
out as he dow.
But truce with commotions,
And new-fangled notions,
A bumper, I trust you’ll
allow;
Here’s George
our good king,
And Charlotte his queen,
And lang may they
ring as they dow, dow, dow,
And lang may they
ring as they dow.