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O merry may the maid be
Who marries wi' the miller, For foul day or fair day
He's ay bringing till her ; Has ay a penny in his pouch,
Has something het for supper, Wi' beef and pease, and melting cheese,
An' lumps o' yellow butter.
Behind the door stand bags o' meal,
And in the ark is plenty ; And good hard cakes his mither bakes,
And mony a sweeter dainty.
Are standing in the byre ;
Is playing round the fire.
Good signs are these, my
says, And bids me take the miller; A miller's wife's a merry wife,
And he's ay bringing till her.
Till wood and water's scanty ;
She'll ay hae eggs in plenty.
In winter time, when wind and sleet
Shake ha-house, barn, and byre,
Before a rousing fire;
And ay to show he's happy,
Wi' kisses warm and sappy
The Miller was written by Sir John Clerk of Pennycuick, and first made its appearance in Yair's Charmer, in the year 1751. The commencing lines form part of a more ancient song, into the peculiar tact of which the poet has entered with much truth and felicity. The present copy varies from other versions; it has spared a verse from the narrative which the story seemed not to want, and where it departs from the earlier copies it departs for the sake of nature and truth. On the whole, it presents a very pleasing picture of rustic enjoyment.
NO DOMINIES FOR ME, LADDIE.
I chanced to meet an airy blade,
A new-made pulpiteer, laddie,
Black coat, and cuffs fu' clear, laddie. A lang cravat at him did
wag, And buckles at his knee, laddie; Says he, my heart, by Cupid's dart,
Is captivate to thee, lassie.
I'll rather chuse to thole grim death ;
So cease and let me be, laddie : For what? says he; Good troth, said I,
No dominies for me, laddie. Ministers' stipends are uncertain rents
For lady's conjunct-fee, laddie; When books and gowns are a' cried down,
No dominies for me, laddie.
But for your sake I'll fleece the flock,
Grow rich as I grow auld, lassie; If I be spared I'll be a laird,
And thou's be madam callid, lassie. But what if ye should chance to die,
Leave bairnies, ane or twa, laddie? Naething wad be reserved for them But hair-mould books to gnaw,
At this he angry was, I wat,
He gloom'd and look'd fu'hie, laddie:
I left my dominie, laddie.
This lesson learn of me, lássie,
That first makes love to thee, lassie.
Then I returning hame again,
And coming down the town, laddie,
A gentleman dragoon, laddie ;
'Twas help in time of need, laddie:
At twa words we agreed, laddie.
He led me to his quarter-house,
Where we exchanged a word, laddie:
We married o'er the sword, laddie.
Than ony sermon bell, laddie;
Than black, the hue of hell, laddie.
Kings, queens, and princes, crave the aid
Of my brave stout dragoon, laddie;
While dominies are much employ'd
They look like, Let me be, laddie:
No dominies for me, laddie.
This song was written by the Reverend Nathaniel Mackay of Crossmichael, in Galloway; and it is alleged that he was himself the slighted dominie whom he has so felicitously ridiculed; for he had paid his addresses, in early life, to a fair but scornful lady, who considered herself far above the rank and pretensions of a “newmade pulpiteer,” and finally yielded to the assiduities of an admirer who sported a gaudier livery, and pursued a more attractive and romantic vocation.
THE BONNIE BRUCKET LASSIE.
The bonnie brucket lassie,
She's blue beneath the een;
That danced on the green.
She did his love return;
And left her for to mourn.