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Now to her heaving bosom cling,
And sweetly toolie for a kiss,
Frae her fair finger whop a ring,
As taiken of a future bliss.

These bennisons, I'm very sure,
Are of the gods' indulgent grant;
Then, surly carles, whisht, forbear
To plague us with your whining cant.

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THE old song, in three eight-line stanzas, is well known, and has merit as to wit and humour; but it is rather unfit for insertion.-It begins,

The bonie lass o' Liviston,

Her name ye ken, her name ye ken,
And she has written in her contract,

To lie her lane, to lie her lane.

&c. &c.


RAMSAY found the first line of this song, which had been preserved as the title of the charming air, and then composed the rest of the verses to suit that line. This has always a finer effect than composing English words, or words with an idea foreign to the spirit of the old title. Where old titles of songs convey any idea at all, it will generally be found to be quite in the spirit of the air.


THOUGH this has certainly every evidence of being a Scotish air, yet there is a well-known tune and song in the North of Ireland, called, The Weaver and his Shuttle, O, which though sung much quicker, is every note the very tune.

When I was in my se'nteen year,

I was baith blythe and bonny,
O the lads loo'd me baith far and near,
But I loo'd nane but Johnny:

He gain'd my heart in twa three weeks,
He spake sae blythe and kindly;
And I made him new gray breeks,
That fitted him most finely.

He was a handsome fellow;

His humour was baith frank and free, His bonny locks sae yellow,

Like gowd they glitter'd in my ee ;His dimpl'd chin and rosy cheeks, And face sae fair and ruddy; And therr a-days his gray breeks, Was neither auld nor duddy.*

But now they're threadbare worn,
They're wider than they wont to be;
They're tashed-like,+ and sair torn,
And clouted sair on ilka knee.
But gin I had a simmer's day,
As I have had right mony,
I'd make a web o' new gray,
To be breeks to my Johnny.

For he's weel wordy o' them,
And better gin I had to gie,

And I'll tak pains upo' them,

Frae fauts I'll strive to keep them free.

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To clead him weel shall be my care,
And please him a' my study;
But he maun wear the auld pair
Awee, tho' they be duddy.

For when the lad was in his prime,
Like him there was nae mony,
He ca'd me aye his bonny thing,
Sae wha wou'd na lo'e Johnny?
So I lo❜e Johnny's gray breeks,

For a' the care they've gi'en me yet, And gin we live anither year,

We'll keep them hale betwen us yet.

Now to conclude,-his gray breeks,
I'll sing them up wi' mirth and glee;
Here's luck to a' the gray steeks,*
That show themsells upo' the knee!
And if wi' health I'm spared,

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KATE of Aberdeen, is, I believe, the work of poor Cunningham the player; of whom the following anecdote, though told before, deserves a recital. A fat dignitary of the church coming past Cunningham one Sunday as the poor poet was busy plying a fishing-rod in some stream near Durham, his native country, his reverence reprimanded Cunningham very severely for such an occupation on such a day.

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