They're douff and dowie at the best,
Their allegros and a' the rest,
They canna please a Scottish taste,
Compar'd wi' Tullochgorum.
Let warldly minds themselves oppress
Wi' fears of want, and double cess,
And sullen sots themselves distress
Wi' keeping up decorum.
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Like auld Philosophorum?
Shall we so sour and sulky sit,
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit,
Nor ever rise to shake a fit
To the reel of Tullochgorum?
May choicest blessings still attend
Each honest open-hearted friend,
And calm and quiet be his end,
And a' that's good watch o'er him!
May peace and plenty be his lot, Peace and plenty, peace and plenty, May peace and plenty be his lot,
And dainties a great store o' 'em ; May peace and plenty be his lot, Unstain'd by any vicious spot! And may he never want a groat That's fond of Tullochgorum.
But for the dirty, yawning fool,
Who wants to be oppression's tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten soul,
And discontent devour him!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
And nane say wae's me for 'im!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Wi' a' the ills that come frae rrance,
Whae'er he be, that winna dance
The reel of Tullochgorum.
[GEORGE HALKET. Died 1756.]
O Logie o' Buchan, O Logie the laird,
They ha'e ta'en awa' Jamie, that delved in the yard,
Wha play'd on the pipe, and the viol sae sma',
They ha'e ta'en awa' Jamie, the flow'r o' them a'.
He said, Think na lang lassie, tho' I gang awa';
He said, Think na lang lassie, tho' I gang awa';
For simmer is coming, cauld winter's awa',
And I'll come and see thee in spite of them a'
Tho' Sandy has ousen', has gear, and has kye;
A house, and a hadden, and siller forbye:
Yet I'd tak' my ain lad, wi' his staff in his hand,
Before I'd ha'e him, wi' the houses and land.
My daddie looks sulky, my minnie looks sour,
They frown upon Jamie because he is poor;
Tho' I lo'e them as weel as a daughter should do,
They're nae half sa dear to me, Jamie, as you.
I sit on my creepie, I spin at my wheel,
And think on the laddie that lo'ed me sae weel;
He had but ae saxpence, he bak it in twa,
And gied me the hauf o't when he ga'd awa'.
Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa',
Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa',
The simmer is coming, cauld winter 's awa',
And ye'll come and see me in spite o' them a'.
2 low stool.
[ALEXANDER GEDDES. Born 1737; died 1802.]
Oh! send Lewie Gordon hame
And the lad I daurna' name;
Although his back be at the wa',
Here's to him that 's far awa'.
Hech hey! my Highlandman!
My handsome, charming Highlandman!
Weel could I my true love ken,
Amang ten thousand Highlandmen.
Oh, to see his tartan trews,
Bonnet blue and laigh-heel'd shoes,
Philabeg aboon his knee!
That's the lad that I'll gang wi'.
This lovely lad of whom I sing,
Is fitted for to be a king;
And on his breast he wears a star,
You'd take him for the god of war.
Oh, to see this princely one
Seated on his father's throne!
Our griefs would then a' disappear,
We'd celebrate the jub'lee year.
THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE. [JEAN ADAMS. Died 1765.]
And are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think of wark?
Ye jauds, fling by your wheel
Is this a time to think o' wark.
When Colin's at the door?
Gie me my cloak! I'll to the quay
And see him come ashore.
For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck ava;
There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa.
Rise up and mak' a clean fireside;
Put on the muckle pot;
Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown,
And Jock his Sunday coat:
And mak' their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he's been long awa'.
There's twa fat hens upon the bauk,
Been fed this month and mair;
Mak' haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;
And mak' the table neat and clean,
Gar ilka thing look braw;
It's a' for love of my gudeman,
For he's been long awa'.
O gi'e me down my bigonet',
My bishop satin gown,
For I maun tell the bailie's wife
That Colin's come to town.
My Sunday's shoon they maun gae on,
My hose o' pearl blue;
Tis a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he's baith leal and true.
Sae true his words, sae smooth his speech,
His breath's like caller air!
His very foot has music in 't,
As he comes up the stair. And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy with the thought,
In troth, I'm like to greet.
The cauld blasts o' the winter wind,
That thrilled through my heart,
They're a' blawn by; I ha'e him safe,
Till death we'll never part:
But what puts parting in my head?
It may be far awa';
The present moment is our ain,
The neist we never saw.
Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content,
I ha'e nae more to crave;
Could I but live to mak' him blest,
I'm blest above the lave':
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,-
In troth, I'm like to greet.
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