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I'll let her stand u year or twa; She'll no be half sae saucy yet.

I RUE the day I sought her. O;
1 rue th day I sought her, O;
Wh gather, needna say he's woo'd,
But hey say he's b. ught her, O.
My love, she's. &c.

Come draw a drap o' the best o't yet ; Come draw a drap o' the best o t yet Gae seek for pleasure where ye will But here I never miss'd it yet.

My love, she's. &c.

We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ;
We're a' dry wi' drinking o't ;
The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife,
And couldna preach for thinking o't.
My love, she's, &c.

MY WIFE HAS TA'EN THE GEE.
Tune" My Wife has ta'en the Gee."

A FRIEND O' mine cam here yestreen,
And he wad hae me down

To drink a bottle o' ale wi' him

In the neist burrows town:

But oh, indeed, it was, Sir,

Sae far the waur for me;
For, lang or e'er that I cam hame,

My wife had tane the gee.

We sat sae late, and drank sae stout,

The truth I tell to you,
That, lang or e'er the midnicht cam,
We a' were roarin' fou.
My wife sits at the fireside,

And the tear blinds aye her ee;
The ne'er a bed wad she gang to,
But sit and tak' the gee.

In the mornin' sune, when I cam doun, The ne'er a word she spake ;

But mony a sad and sour look,

And aye her head she'd shake.
My dear, quoth I, what aileth thee,
To look sae sour on me?
I'll never do the like again,

If you'll ne'er tak' the gee.

When that she heard, she ran, she flang
Her arms about my neck;
And twenty kisses, in a crack;

And, poor wee thing, she grat.
If you'll ne'er do the like again,
But bide at hame wi' me,
I'll lay my life, I'll be the wife
That never taks the gee.

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• From Herd's collection, 1776.

THE BONNIE LASS O' BRANKSOME.

ALLAN RAMSAY.

Tune" The Bonnie Las o' Branksome.

4 Fame in by Teviot side,

17.4 the bries of Branksome, There firs' I saw my bonny bride, Young Smiling, sweet, and handsome. Her skin was safter than the down, And white as alabaster; Her hair, a shining, waving brown; I straightness nane surpass'd her.

Life glow'd upon her lip and cheek,
Her clear een were surprising,
And beautifully turn'd her neck,
Her little breasts just rising:
Nae silken hose with gushats fine,
Or -hoon with glancing laces,
On her bare leg, forbade to shine
Weel-shapen native graces.

Ae little coat and bodice white

Was sum o' a' her claithing; E'en these o'er muckle;-mair delyte She'd given clad wi' naething. We lean'd upon a flowery brae, By which a burnie trotted; On her I glowr'd my soul away, While on her sweets I doated.

A thousand beauties of desert

Before had scarce alarm'd me, Till this dear artless struck my heart, And, bot designing, charm'd me. Hurried by love, close to my breast I clasp'd this fund of blisses,Wha smiled, and said, Without a priest, Sir, hope for nocht but kisses.

I had nae heart to do her harm,
And yet I couldna want her;
What she demanded, ilka charm

O' hers pled I should grant her.
Since heaven had dealt to me a routh,
Straight to the kirk I led her;
There plighted her my faith and trouth,
And a young lady made her.⚫

MY WIFE'S A WANTON WEE THING.
Tune-"My wife's a wanton wee thing."
My wife's a wanton wee thing,
My wife's a wanton wee thing,

This song, which appeared in the Tea-Table Miscellany, (1724), was founded upon a real incident. The bonnie lass was daughter to a woman who kept an alehouse at the hamlet near Branksome Castle, in Teviotdale. A young officer, of some rank, his name we believe was Maitland, happened to be be quarter ed somewhere in the neighbourhood, saw, loved, and married her. So strange was such an alliance deemed in those days, that the old mother, under whose auspices it was performed, did not escape the imputation of witchcraft.

SONGS.

My wife's a wanton wee thing;
She winna be guided by me.

She play'd the loon ere she was married,
She play'd the loon ere she was married,
She play'd the loon ere she was married;
She'll do't again ere she die!

She sell'd her coat, and she drank it,
She sell'd her coat, and she drank it,
She row'd hersell in a blanket;

She winna be guided by me.

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The bear's 'i the brear, and the hay's i' the stack, And a' 'll be right wi' us, gin Jamie were come back.

And we're a noddin', &c.

From Johnson's Scots Musical Museum, vol. II.

MY NATIVE CALEDONIA.

SAIR, sair was my heart, when I parted frae my
Jean,

And sair, sair I sigh'd, while the tears stood in
my een;

For my daddie is but poor, and my fortune is but sma';

Which gars me leave my native Caledonia.

When I think on days now gane, and how happy I hae been,

While wandering wi' my dearie, where the primrose blaws unseen;

I'm wae to leave my lassie, and my daddie's sim

ple ha',

Or the hills and healthfu' breeze o' Caledonia.

But wherever I wander, still happy be my Jean! Nae care disturb her bosom, where peace has ever been!

Then, though ills on ills befa' me, for her I'll bear them a',

Though aft I'll heave a sigh for Caledonia.

But should riches e'er be mine, and my Jeanie still be true,

Then blaw, ye favourin' breezes, till my native land I view ;

Then I'll kneel on Scotia's shore, while the heart-felt tear shall fa',

And never leave my Jean and Caledonia.

O, AN YE WERE DEID, GUIDMAN.
Tune-" O, an ye war deid, Guidman."
O, AN ye were deid, guidman,
And a green truff on your heid, guidman,
That I might ware my widowheid
Upon a rantin Highlandman.

There's sax eggs in the pan, guidman,
There's sax eggs in the pan, guidman;
There's ane to you, and twa to me,
And three to our John Highlandman.

There's beef into the pot, guidman,
There's beef into the pot, guidman;
The banes for you, and the broe for me,
And the beef for our John Highlandman.

There's sax horse in the sta', guidman,
There's sax horse in the sta', guidman;
There's ane to you, and twa to me,
And three to our John Highlandman.

There's sax kye in the byre, guidman,
There's sax kye in the byre, guidman ;
There's nane o' them yours, but there's twa o
them mine,

The two first stanzas, however, appear in And the lave is our John Highlandman's.

1790.
Herd's collection, 1776.

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OH, WHAT A PARISH!

ADAM CRAWFORD.

Tune" Bonnie Dundee."

O, what a parish, what a terrible parisk,
O, what a parish is that of Dunkell!
They hae hangit the minister, drouned the
precentor,

Dung down the steeple, and drucken the bell!

THOUGH the steeple was doun, the kirk was still stannin;

They biggit a lum where the bell used to hang; A stell-pat they gat, and they brewed Hieland whisky;

On Sundays they drank it, and rantit and sang!
O, what a parish, &c.

Oh, had you but seen how gracefu' it luikit,
To see the crammed pews sae socially join!
Macdonald, the piper, stuck up i' the poupit,
He made the pipes skirl sweet music divine!
O, what a parish, &c.

When the heart-cheerin spirit had mountit the garret,

To a ball on the green they a' did adjourn; Maids, wi' their coats kiltit, they skippit and liltit;

When tired, they shook hands, and a hame

did return..

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Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, how-diddle, went the pipers;

Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers three:

And there's no a lass in a' Scotland,
Compared to sweet Marjorie.

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Crawford, the inditer of this curious frolic, was a WHEN white was my o'erlay as foam o' the linn, tailor in Edinburgh, and the author of some other good And siller was clinkin' my pouches within;

When my lambkins were bleating on meadow | His boots they were made of the jag,

and brae;

As I gaed to my love in new cleeding sae gay, Kind was she,

And my friends were free;

But poverty parts gude companie.

How swift pass'd the minutes and hours of light!

When he went to the weapon-shaw; Upon the green nane durst him brag, The fient a ane amang them a'.

And was not Willie weel worth gowd? He wan the love o' grit and sma'; de-For, after he the bride had kiss'd,

The piper play'd cheerly, the crusie burn'd bright;

And link'd in my hand was the maiden sae dear, As she footed the floor in her holiday gear.

Woe is me,

And can it then be,

That poverty parts sic companie!

We met at the fair, we met at the kirk,
We met in the sunshine, and met in the mirk;
And the sounds of her voice, and the blinks of
her een,

The cheering and life of my bosom have been.
Leaves frae the tree

At Martinmas flee;

And poverty parts sweet companie.

At bridal and infare I've braced me wi' pride; The bruse I hae won, and a kiss o' the bride; And loud was the laughter gay fellows among, When I utter'd my banter and chorus'd my song. Dowie to dree

Are jesting and glee,

When poverty parts gude companie.

Wherever I gaed the blythe lasses smiled sweet, And mithers and aunties were mair than discreet,

He kiss'd the lasses haill-sale a'.

Sae merrily round the ring they row'd, When by the hand he led them a'; And smack on smack on them bestow'd, By virtue of a standing law.

And was na Willie a great loun,

As shyre a lick as e'er was seen? When he danced with the lasses round, The bridegroom spier'd where he had been. Quoth Willie, I've been at the ring;

Wi' bobbin', faith, my shanks are sair ; Gae ca' the bride and maidens in,

For Willie he dow do na mair.

Then rest ye, Willie, I'll gae out,

And for a wee fill up the ring; But shame licht on his souple snout!

He wanted Willie's wanton fling. Then straight he to the bride did fare,

Says, Weel's me on your bonny face:
With bobbin' Willie's shanks are sair,
And I am come to fill his place.

Bridegroom, says she, you'll spoil the dance,
And at the ring you'll aye be lag,
Unless like Willie ye advance;

Oh, Willie has a wanton leg!
For wi't he learns us a' to steer,
And foremost aye bears up the ring;

While kebbuck and bicker were set on the We will find nae sic dancin' here,

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If we want Willie's wanton fling.

THE AULD MAN'S MEAR'S DEAD.

Tunc-"The auld man's mear's dead."
The auld man's mear's dead;
The puir body's mear's dead;
The auld man's mear's dead,
A mile aboon Dundee.

THERE was hay to ca', and lint to lead,
A hunder hotts o' muck to spread,
And peats and truffs and a' to lead-
And yet the jaud to dee!

The auld man's, &c.

She had the fiercie and the fleuk,
The wheezloch and the wanton yeuk;
On ilka knee she had a breuk-
What ail'd the beast to dee?
The auld man's, &c.

From the Tea-Table Miscellany, 1724. As it is there sigued by the initials of the author, there arises a presumption that he was alive, and a friend of Ram say, at the period of the publication of that work.

She was lang-tooth'd and blench-lippit,
Heam-hough'd and haggis-fittit,
Lang-neckit, chandler-chaftit,
And yet the jaud to dee!*
The auld man's, &c.

ROY'S WIFE OF ALDIVALLOCH.

MRS. GRANT OF CARRON.
Tune-"The Ruffian's Rant."
Roy's wife of Aldivalloch,
Roy's wife of Aldivalloch,
Wat ye how she cheated me,

As I came o'er the brues of Balloch ?

SHE vow'd, she swore, she wad be mine;
She said she lo'ed me best of onie ;
But, ah! the fickle, faithless quean,
She's ta'en the carle, and left her Johnie.
Roy's wife, &c.

Oh, she was a canty quean,

And weel could dance the Hieland walloch!
How happy I, had she been mine,

Or I been Roy of Aldivalloch !
Roy's wife, &c.

Her hair sae fair, her een sae clear,

Her wee bit mou' sae sweet and bonnie!

To me she ever will be dear,
Though she's for ever left her Johnie.
Roy's wife, &c.

STEER HER UP AND HAUD HER

GAUN.

Tune-" Steer her up and haud her gaun."

O STEER her up and haud her gaun ;
Her mother's at the mill, jo:

But gin she winna tak a man,

E'en let her tak her will, jo.
Pray thee, lad, leave silly thinking;
Cast thy cares of love away;
Let's our sorrows drown in drinking;
'Tis daffin langer to delay.

See that shining glass of claret,

How invitingly it looks!
Take it aff, and let's have mair o't;

Pox on fighting, trade, and books!
Let's have pleasure, while we're able;
Bring us in the meikle bowl;
Place't on the middle of the table;

And let wind and weather gowl.

Call the drawer; let him fill it
Fou as ever it can hold :
Oh, tak tent ye dinna spill it ;

'Tis mair precious far than gold.
By you've drunk a dozen bumpers,
Bacchus will begin to prove,
Spite of Venus and her mumpers,
Drinking better is than love.

SYMON BRODIE.
Tune-"Symon Brodie."

SYMON BRODIE had a cow,

The cow was lost, and he could na find her;
When he had done what man could do,
The cow cam hame, and her tail behind her.
Honest auld Symon Brodie,

Stupid auld doitit bodie!

I'll awa to the North countrie, And see my ain dear Symon Brodie.

Symon Brodie had a wife,

And, wow! but she was braw and bonnie;
She took the dish-clout aff the buik,
And preen'd it to her cockernonie.
Honest auld Symon Brodie, &c.

NEIL GOW'S FAREWELL TO
WHISKY.

The late Rev. Mr. Clunie, minister of the parish of Borthwick, near Edinburgh, (who was so enthusias tically fond of singing Scottish songs, that he used to hang his watch round the candle on Sunday evenings, and wait anxiously till the conjunction of the hands at 12 o'clock permitted him to break out in one of his favourite ditties), was noted for the admirable manner in which he sung "Bonny Dundee," "Waly, waly, up yon bank," The Auld Man's Mear's dead," with many other old Scottish ditties. One day, happening to meet with some friends at a tavern in Dalkeith, he You've surely heard o' famous Neil, was solicited to favour the company with the latter The man that played the fiddle weel; humorous ditty which he was accordingly singing

Tune-"Farwell to Whisky."

with his usual effect and brilliancy, when the woman I wat he was a canty chiel,
who kept the house thrust her head in at the door, and
added, at the conclusion of one of the choruses, "Od,
the auld man's mear's dead, sure eneuch. Your horse,
minister, has hanged itself at my door." Such was
really the fact. The minister, on going into the house,
had tied his horse by a rope to a hook, or ring, near
the door, and as he was induced to stay much longer
than he intended, the poor animal, either through ex-
haustion, or a sudden fit of disease, fell down, and was
strangled. He was so much mortified by this unhappy
accident, the coincidence of which with the subject of
his song was not a little striking, that, all his life after,
he could never be persuaded to sing "The Auld Man's
Mear's dead" again,

And dearly loe'd the whisky, O.
And, aye sin he wore the tartan trews,
He dearly lo'ed the Athole brose;
And wae was he, you may suppose,

To play farewell to whisky, O.

Alake, quoth Neil, I'm frail and áuld,
And find my blude grow unco cauld;
I think 'twad make me blythe and bauld,
A wee drap Highland whisky, O.

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