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PREFACE.

A NEW edition of the Poems and Songs of Alexander Rodger having been long in request by the numerous admirers of the Poet's writings at home and abroad, the present selective, yet comprehensive, collection has been prepared to meet the evident want.
All that the author wrote and left behind him in book form has not been gathered into these pages; but nothing has been left out which the editor could persuade himself might be desired by the public, or the loss of which was likely to injure the reputation of the poet.
The long poem of "Peter Cornclips" has been omitted, for reasons stated in the introduction.  And some of the Poet's satires have not been reprinted, because, referring, as they do, to persons and events of more than fifty years ago, their point is either no longer apparent, or their motive has ceased to be interesting.  But the worthy, the witty, and the wise - they are all here, to the honour and renown of their author.

====R.F.





INTRODUCTION.

IT is exactly fifty years to-day (26th September, 1896), since "rare old Sandy Rodger" died - Alexander Rodger, the Glasgow Radical poet, and the merriest of all the _Whistle-Binkie_ brotherhood - some of whose songs - "Robin Tamson's Smiddy," "Behave Yoursel' Before Folk," "Oh, Mither, Onybody," and one or two more-are among the best examples of the humorous lyric muse that have appeared in Scotland since the days of Robert Burns.  Rodger, who assisted materially in the production of the _Laird of Logan_, was part-editor of the perennial _Whisle-Binkie_, and besides played a hand in the game of revolutionary politics so splendidly that he was a "kenspeckle " figure in the streets of the ever-Radical western metropolis seventy years ago, and enjoyed a fame alike for politics and lyrical letters which, even in his own time, was as wide as the limits of his native land.  A burly chield was Sandy Rodger, indeed.  Few men have exhibited more of the spirit that is described by the Latin phrase, _perfervidum ingenium Scotorum_.  And, tartan to the heel, forsooth, the colours were strong, the pattern was large.  Then he possessed the saving quality of humour in such unmeasurable abundance-humour, too, so insidious in its nature and over-powering in its variety, that every adversary who fell from the attack of his pen may be said to have perished in a paroxysm of laughter.
A grandson of Alexander Rodger is my near neighbour in Glasgow.  I have repeatedly met a charming old lady in Bridgeton-Mrs. Murdoch, the mother of Dr. Murdoch there - at whose father's fireside the poet was a familiar figure.  Other people I have talked with who knew him well, and all have spoken rapturously of the warm heart, the ready hand, the frank and kindly disposition, the rare humour, the strong social instincts, and the fun, and fire, and keen magnetic influence, of the man.  The songs already mentioned will keep Sandy's name in evidence throughout another century at least - no matter how rapidly the new "Kailyarders" may multiply and luxuriate - and no writing of mine or any other man's will keep that living when these fail to do so.  Such is not my object; such is not my hope or desire.  I write of this notable _Whistle-Binkie_ poet because I think it is meet - because I think it is due to him - that in the mid-centenary year of his death a restatement of his interesting career should be made, and a new edition of his Poems and Songs should be placed in the hands of his appreciative countrymen.
Rodger was born at the village of East-Calder, in Midlothian, on the 16th of July, 1784.  His father, at first a farmer, and for a time the tenant of Haggs, close by the village of Dalmahoy, afterwards kept an inn in the village of Mid-Calder, where Alexander was sent to school.  In course of time, and while the future bard was still a boy not yet entered into his teens, the family removed to Edinburgh, and here Sandy was sent to learn the trade of a silversmith with a Mr. Mathie.  He continued about a year in this employment, when his father's affairs became so much embarrassed that the household had to be finally broken up.  The father removed to Hamburg, and the son was sent to reside with his mother's relations in Glasgow, who, in 1797, apprenticed him to a respectable weaver of the name of James Dunn (his step-father), who resided at the Drygate Toll, in the near neighbourhood of the ancient Cathedral.
In a few years quite a loyal fever broke out in the country, and the young and impressionable poet, not escaping the infection, was induced to become a member of the Glasgow Highland Volunteers.  The company to which he attached himself was principally composed of raw mountaineers, then, as now, a prevalent element in the Glasgow community, and the keen edge of the poet's wit found congenial employment in hitting off in telling verses the colloquial humours and foibles of his Highlaid compatriots.  It is to even this early period in his career we are indebted for such rarely humorous pieces as "Lauchie Fraser's Promotions" and "Shon M'Nab," and some more of his exceedingly happy examples of the Highlander's broken English, most of which are well known to the general reader.  There were occasional little squibs, too, fired at abuses which offended the poet's sense of fairplay, such as the following, which is self-explanatory:-

="The greatest sumphs in a' our core,
==Are sure to be promoted,
=While men of mettle are passed o'er,
==And scarcely ever noted.

=This truth may seem a paradox,
==But mark ye how I'll clear it,
=Promotion amang Highland folks
==Gangs mair by _Mac_ than merit."

And this other, written about the same time:-

="Though she'll pe couldna read nor write,
==Will no pe meikle harm in't;
=She'll kiss her Honour's Clory's _toup_
==To get wee bit preferment."

Rodger continued in this Volunteer regiment, and in another which rose out of it after its dissolution, called the Glasgow Highland Locals, for no less than nine years.  When he was twenty-two years old he married a girl named Agnes Turner, by whom he had a large family, some of whom in course of time removed to the United States of America, where they, or their descendants, still reside.  After his marriage the poet removed to Bridgeton, then a suburb, though now incorporated in vastly greater Glasgow, and, still making his bread and butter mainly by the exercise of the handloom, he put a respectable eke on his income by teaching music.  He also composed for his own amusement, and continued, as before, to exercise his early-discovered gift for humorous and satirical song-making.  In 1819, when the fever of Radicalism was epidemic among the working population of the country, and the poet had now a large family depending upon him, he was led to connect himself with a weekly journal called _The Spirit of the Union_, started in Glasgow by a person of the name of Gilbert M'Leod, and designed to cause disaffection to the Government of the time.  First he wrote political squibs, such as "The Muckin' o' Geordie's Byre," for this organ.  Then he joined the staff.  Better had he stuck fast to the loom, however.  Within a few weeks of Rodger's appointment the editor was apprehended on a charge of sedition, found guilty, and sentenced to transportation for life; while Sandy was also taken into custody, convicted of revolutionary practices, and sent to prison for a time.  To be particular in this matter, Rodger entered the office to assist in the production of the fifth issue of the work, and the last number of it which was published was the tenth; the authorities having apprehended M'Leod about the beginning of January, 1820, and broken up the establishment.  Immediately succeeding the "smash," Mr. Rodger returned to the loom and continued weaving till the month of April following.  On the first of that month there appeared on the walls of the city what was called a "Treasonable Address," bearing to be issued by a "Provisional Government."  This gave rise to an immense number of apprehensions and imprisonments.  Molehills were magnified into mountains; and the most trifling circumstances in the history of individuals who were known to possess liberal views were laid hold of as the ground of their apprehension.  Among others, Rodger became an object of suspicion to the authorities, from his former connection with _The Spirit of the Union_.  He was accordingly apprehended on the 8th of April, and lodged in Glasgow Bridewell, where he was confined like a common felon for eleven days.  During that period he was examined by a Sheriff Bruce as to his supposed connection with the "Address," but, of course, without affording any ground for a charge.  Solitary confinement was then the order of the day, but to this it would appear some unspecified harshness was added-possibly _ex-officio_.  The spirit of the indignant poet rose, however, superior to the petty malice of the small-souled officials; and he solaced himself and tantalised them by singing at the top of his lungs his own political compositions.  These, highly spiced as they were by the awful Radicalism of the time, gave his jailors "fits," and their repressive measures became more drastic.  But the Radical bard was irrepressible, and the singing did not cease - yea, he embalmed their very cruelties in new and equally pungent measures, which rang in their ears in every hour of the day and the night.  How the poet's proud spirit was galled by his being

="Pent up within this horrid cell,"

will be seen in the "Lines Written in a certain Bridewell by a State Prisoner," which first appeared in pencil on his cell-wall.
The poet used to relate many entertaining anecdotes of this stormy and eventful period of his life.  Among others, when his house was searched for seditious publications (terrible bugbears at that time to the local authorities of Glasgow), Sandy handed the Family Bible to the Sheriff's Officer who was making search, it being, he said, the only treasonable book in his possession; and for proof of this, he referred the horrified official to the chapter on Kings in the first Book of Samuel.
The advanced Radical, the reader will note, had to walk rougher shod in those days than now, and to be a martyr for the "cause" did not pay Rodger so well as it has done less doughty champions in more recent years.  Release from jail meant only for the poet, indeed, re-incarceration within the "four stoops o' misery" - the loom.  But he returned to this cheerfully, and wrought away until sometime in 1821, when, through the kind offices of a namesake, if not a relative-Mr. George Rodger, then manager of the extensive works of Henry Monteith & Company - he was enabled to leave the loom for a less laborious situation in that establishment as an inspector of the printed cloth, in which appointment he continued for the next eleven years.  The interval of this period marked the harvesttime of Rodger's poetic career.  It was now he wrote "Colin Dulap;" "Jamie M'Nab," "Behave Yoursel' Before Folk," "Robin Tamson's Smiddy," and other songs so full of racy and genial humour, as well as composed many of his sweetest and best known love-lyrics.  The treatment he received in Bridewell did not snuff out his political candle either, as the date of his most celebrated satire, "Sawney, now the King's Come," will bear witness, for this, of course, was written in 1822.  And now, as ever, the poet exercised a keen interest in local concerns that affected the weal or ill of the people.  In 1823 the liberty of the banks of the Clyde was threatened by the rapacity of a local proprietor of the name of Thomas Harvie, who erected a dyke to put an end to a public footpath, and Rodger was among the first to call attention to the unwarranted encroachment, by letters to the newspapers, etc.  A protracted struggle ensued, in which the poet was found continually in the thick of the fight.  Night and day, in fair weather and foul, and in the face of many difficulties and reproaches he stuck to his point in the public's interest.  He searched out evidence, he promoted subscriptions, he got up concerts and exhibitions, and did all he could think of to raise funds to carry on the law-suit which became inevitable; and, he was a principal, if not the chief, instrument, as one biographer at least avers, of ultimately establishing the right of the public to a footpath on the banks of the Clyde.  Three of his well-known songs - "Come to the Banks of Clyde," "Roll, Fair Clutha," and "Come, fill a Bumper" - we know, were the outcome of this struggle, having been written for and sung by the poet himself at the concerts above-named.  The last song, indeed, was sung at the meeting at which gold medals were presented to the various members of Committee-to all except Mr. Rodger, who was most unfairly overlooked.  Why? it has not been even hinted.  And because, we presume, the poet did not trouble to enquire.  His reward, which was the best-and all he sought for-was set in the successful issue of the agitation.
Rodger's life, as we are beginning to realise, was marked by considerable variety.  Already he has been a silversmith, a weaver, a poet, a teacher of music, a political martyr, a cloth-inspector, and a champion of the Rights of the People.  In 1832 he appears in a new _role_.  Then one of his friends, who had begun business as a pawnbroker in or about the Saltmarket, induced him to leave Monteith's works and take the management of his business.  But such employment was ill-suited to the feelings of a man so kindly and sympathetic in his nature as Alexander Rodger as he says in some verses on the subject-

="Obliged each day and hour to undergo
=The pain of hearing tales of want and woe,
=So finely framed, with so much feeling told,
=As would make misers give, nor grudge, their gold;
=Compelled to handle every dirty rag,
=Stript from the hide of every hateful hag,
=And doomed each finer feeling to degrade,
=By bullying every blackguard trull and jade,
=Who hither comes her tawdry trash to pop,
=That she may drink it at the next dram shop."

The environment, distasteful to him from the first, in ten month's time became more than he could longer bear, and he appealed to the "managers of B----.  Dye-works" to take his case into consideration, and save him "from this every day's damnation."  He would "fire their furnaces, or weigh their coals, wheel barrows, riddle ashes, mend up holes, beat cloth, strip shades; in short, do anything," rather than stay longer in this detested place.  Relief came opportunely.  Through the influence of his friend, Mr. William Gardner, the poet was received into the office of the _Glasgow Chronicle newspaper_-then conducted by Mr. David Prentice-as a reader and assistant reporter of local news.  In this employment he remained about a year, when he got a charge in the office of the _Liberator_, then under the management, as editor, of his valued and lamented friend, Mr. John Tait.  Here, while Tait lived, the poet was quite at home.  He was in the midst of kindred spirits-able, intelligent, and, withal, democratic; and he felt himself in a new element.  But the premature death of Tait, with the pecuniary embarrassments in which the establishment had become involved, led ere long to the dissolution of this connection also, and Rodger was again thrown upon the world.  In a few months, however, he was once more in harness.  And this time in the office of the _Reformers' Gazette_, where he continued till his death, highly esteemed by his employer, and respected by a wide range of friends and admirers.
The poet's health began to fail in the summer of 1846.  He went to the country to see if a change of air and scene would brace his relaxed frame, but he returned to Glasgow unimproved.  To his family and friends, by all of whom he was held in tender and admiring regard, it became early apparent that the end was not far distant; and though everything was done that the best skill available chose to advise, and done in the way best calculated to succour and soothe and revive his drooping spirit, he gradually sank notwithstanding, and passed away from this shifting scene on the 26th September, the same year.
Rodger's lot, as we have seen, had been the traditional one of the poet-poverty, toil, and the vexation of shifting and uncongenial employment.  His noble nature and indomitable spirit, however, raised him ever triumphant in the midst of trying circumstances, and no complaint of the world's unkindness was ever known to issue from his lips.  Indeed, this in a way would have been unjust, for few men in the city of Glasgow in his day-or in all the West of Scotland for that matter-could have congregated around them a more numerous and attached circle of friends.  And this was proved on more than one occasion.  He was not yet an old man when his friend Daniel M'Nee (afterwards knighted) painted his portrait, and made him a gift of the work.  In 1836 his friends and admirers invited him to a public dinner in the Tontine Hotel, at which upwards of two hundred gentlemen were present; and in addition to the barren laurel, he was here presented with a valuable silver snuff-box and eighty-five sovereigns.  Again, on the 25th of January, 1843, he was entertained at a splendid banquet, in the Trades Hall, at which twice as many people were present-many of them from a distance-and when Professor Wilson (the great "Christopher North") did honour to the poet's talents by presiding.  These were honours worthy of esteem, and Rodger esteemed them highly.  Further-and this of a tenderer kind-his remains were followed to the grave by a numerous company of relations and friends-perhaps, in all, about two hundred persons.  Had it been possible to give a more general notice of the time of interment (said the _Glasgow Herald_) thousands would have attended.
The body was laid to rest in a beautifully retired corner of the Glasgow Necropolis, not far removed from the grave of William Motherwell, with whom the poet was intimate in life; and Mr. Leadbetter, the then Dean of Guild, was so obliging as to go and select the spot where the honoured ashes were to unite with the soil from which they came, and where a tasteful monument was subsequently raised to perpetuate his worth.  This, which was executed by the late Mr. Mossman, sculptor, bears the following inscription, written by William Kennedy, author of _Fitful Fancies_, etc., and the subjoined quotation from one of Rodger's own poems:-

====To THE MEMORY OF
===ALEXANDER RODGER,
======A POET
=Gifted with feeling, humour, and fancy;
======A MAN
====Animated by generous,
=Cordial, and comprehensive sympathies,
==Which adversity could not repress,
===Nor popularity enfeeble,
=====THIS MONUMENT
=Is erected in testimony of Public Esteem.
======BORN
==At Mid-Calder, 16th July, 1784;
======DIED
==At Glasgow, 26th September, 1846.

="What though with Burns thou could'st not vie
=In diving deep or soaring high;
=What though thy genius did not blaze
=Like his to draw the public gaze;
=Yet thy sweet numbers, free from art,
=Like his can touch-can melt the heart."

Alexander Rodger first appeared as an avowed author in the year 1827, when _Peter Cornclips, a tale of Real Life, and Other Poems and Songs_, was published by David Allan & Co., Glasgow.  In his preface to this work, the poet says - and I quote the passage because of its frank and manly tone:- "These pieces were written neither solely for my own amusement, nor during hours of leisure; they were composed amid bustle and turmoil-the din of the clanking steam engine, and the deafening rattle of machinery; while the operation of committing them to paper was generally performed amid the squalling and clamour of children around the hearth-now in the pet of childish quarrels, and now mad with mirth and fun and frolic. . . .  Of the beauties or blemishes of these poems it becomes not me to speak.  They are now given to the world to be approved or condemned, and by its judgment I must stand or fall.  Whatever their fate may be, I shall have the consolation that there will not be found in them anything to offend morality or to put modesty to the blush.  My aim has ever been to express such feelings and sentiments as will meet the approbation of the sensible parf of my countrymen - and, I shall hope, of my countrywomen too.  If I have failed in this, my head, and not my heart, is to blame."  In 1838, an enlarged and more complete volume, under the title of _Poems and Songs, Humorous and Satirical_, was issued from the press of the poet's friend, Mr. David Robertson, of _Whistle-Binkie_ fame.  This, which hitherto has been the one and only truly representative collection of his poetical pieces, has been long out of print, even although copies of it have been frequently sought for.  His third publication was, _Stray Leaves from the Portfolios of Alisander the seer, Andrew Whaup, and Humphrey Henkeckle_ - these being the assumed names under which the most of the pieces-chiefly satirical-had been previously published in various periodicals.  This, issued by Charles Rattray in 1842, was the last complete work of which Rodger had the sole authorship.  His talents were, however, to a later period, devoted to the editorship of _Whistle-Binkie_, in which he manifested a real poet's interest, and did more perhaps than any other single individval to give the work character and fame.  Not less than fifty-eight of the lyrics of this perennial collection are from Rodger's pen.  That's a fact worth noting.  But Sandy Rodger was, of all things, a singer of songs; and what he said so well with regard to Tannahill, has equal point and truth when applied to himself.  I must quote the lines again:-

="What, though with Burns thou could'st not vie,
=In diving deep, or soaring high;
=What though thy genius did not blaze,
=Like his, to draw the public gaze;
=Yet thy sweet numbers, free from art,
=Like his can touch-can melt the heart."

To move and melt the heart-to draw laughter and tears-is the song-writer's business; and few since Burns's day have practised the art with more success in Scotland than the subject of this brief memoir.  In moving to laughter, however, he was ever most successful, and his happy humorous songs of "Robin Tamson's Smiddy," and "Behave Yoursel' Before Folk," are known, and sung, and afford delight, wherever Scotsmen gather.  I can scarcely conceive a time when these two songs will cease to charm the hearts of Scottish men and women, "hereabout or far awa'."  They may appear at the present moment in danger of getting overlaid by the prose creations of the stalwart "kail yarders."  But, no; the best of Barrie and Crockett and Maclaren, is not more redolent of the soil, of the "kailyard" - taking the word in its best sense-than the songs of Sandy Rodger, and their vital spark will not be quenched by tons of prose volumes, however graphic and true.  The Earl of Rosebery, in his marvellously eloquent address on Burns in the St. Andrew's Hall, in July this year, said he sometimes asked himself if a roll-call of fame were read over at the beginning of every century, how many men of eminence would answer a Second time.  Not many men of eminence at all, perhaps, but the _adsum_ of the humble writers of "The Flowers of the Forest," "Auld Robin Gray," "The Land o' the Leal," "Home, Sweet Home," "Auld Lang Syne," and "Robin Tamson's Smiddy," we may be sure, would ring out clear and distinct again and again.
But to come back to Rodger.  We have seen how varied was the work-a-day life of the poet.  His muse was not less so, but is represented by every shade and by nearly every order of poetical composition.  In love-songs - admittedly the highest form of the lyric - we find him suitably represented by "Marry for Love and Work for Siller," "It's no that thou'rt Bonnie," "O, Jeanie, why that look sae Cauld?" "Pity me!  What I Dree," and two or three more, as pathetic as may be.  If none of his songs of child-life have taken a place so well established in the common heart as "Wee Willie Winkie," "Castles in the Air," and "Cuddle Doon," yet our author sang very delightsomely, and with not less relish, with not less knowledge of the ways of the wee folks, than the writers of these immortal idylls.  Satire, though the least lovable quality in song-craft, was a distinctive feature of Rodger's muse, and he excelled here, as witness "Sawney, now the King's Come," and the "Mucking o' Geordie's Byre," and some more of his political and social squibs printed towards the end of this volume.  Then, for broad, humorous effects, such as some of the pieces I have mentioned reveal - these, and "Colin Dulap," "Shon M'Nab," "The Nailer's Wife," "O, Mither, Onybody, but a Creeshy Weaver," and "The Drygate Brig," and some others - a place must be admitted to our author in the front-row of the nation's comic gallery.  Once only - in "Peter Cornclips," the one solitary sustained effort of his muse - did the author of these poems, in my opinion, fail to be interesting and amusing, when he meant to be both.  It may be "a true tale," as the poet avers, but it is relieved from absolute weariness only by containing two songs which have no bearing on, nor connection with, the story.  The songs - "Robin Tamson's Smiddy" and "The Tinkler's Song" - have found the place they deserve in this collection.  But "Peter Cornclips" - no; I have more respect for the time and patience of the readers of the volume than ask them to travel so far and find so little.  The piece, in a word, even although it displays some vigorous writing here arid there, is so weak in character and incident, and deficient in dramatic truth, that it reveals only its author's limitations in poet-craft.
It was in song-making - in forming the lightsome lyric-that Rodger excelled.  Herein his strength lay; and, in the splendid lines of the late Robert Louis Stevenson,- 

="Bright is the ring of words
==When the right man rings them,
=Fair the fall of songs
==When the singer sings them.
=Still they are carolled and said-
==On wings they are carried-
=After the singer is dead
==And the maker buried."

We may not grumble, nor feel disappointed sorely, although our author did not excel in a sustained effort like "Peter Cornclips," Long poems at the best appeal but to the few.  'Tis songs that captivate and enliven the multitude; and the lyrical is the rarer and higher gift.  By song-writing Alexander Rodger won fame; and by the songs he wrote his fame survives, and will be maintained.

="Hee sang rycht merrylie."

GLASGOW, 1896.







POEMS AND SONGS.

ROBIN TAMSON'S SMIDDY.

MY mither men't my auld breeks,
=An' wow! but they were duddy,
And sent me to get Mally shod
=At Robin Tamson's smiddy;
The smiddy stands beside the burn
=That wimples through the clachan,
I never yet gae by the door
=But aye I fa' a-lauchin'.

For Robin was a walthy carle,
=An' had ae bonnie dochter:
Yet ne'er wad let her tak' a man,
=Tho' mony lads had socht her;
But what think ye o' my exploit?
=The time our mare was shoeing,
I slippit up beside the lass
=An' briskly fell a-wooing.

An' aye she e'ed my auld breeks,
=The time that we sat crackin',
Quo' I, "My lass, ne'er mind the _clouts_,
=I've new anes for the makin';
But' gin ye'll just come hame wi' me,
=An' lea' the carle, your faither,
Ye'se get my breeks to keep in trim,
=Mysel', an' a' thegither."

"'Deed, lad," quo' she, "your offer's fair,
=I really think I'll tak' it;
Sae, gang awa', get out the mare,
=We'll baith slip on the back o't;
For gin I wait my faither's time,
=I'll wait till I be fifty;
But, na! I'll marry in my prime,
=An' mak' a wife fu' thrifty."

Wow!  Robin was an angry man
=At tynin' o' his dochter;
Thro' a' the kintra-side he ran,
=An' far an' near he socht her;
But when he cam' to our fire-end,
=An' fand us baith thegither,
Quo' I, "Gudeman, I've ta'en your bairn,
=An' ye can tak' my mither."

Auld Robin girn'd an' shook his pow,
="Guid sooth," quo' he, "you're merry,
But I'll just tak' ye at your word
=An' end this hurry-burry "
So Robin an' our auld wife
=Agreed to creep thegither;
Now I hae Robin Tamson's pet,
=An' Robin has my mither.





BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK.

AIR - "_Good morrow for your night cap._"

==BEHAVE yoursel' before folk,
==Behave yoursel' before folk,
=And dinna be sae rude to me,
==As kiss me sae before folk.

It wadna gie me meikle pain,
Gin we were seen and heard by nane,
To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane;
=But, guidsake! no before folk.
==Behave yoursel' before folk,
==Behave yoursel' before folk,
=Whate'er you do, when out o' view,
==Be cautious aye before folk.

Consider, lad, how folk will crack,
And what a great affair they'll mak',
O' naething but a simple smack,
=That's gi'en or ta'en before folk.
==Behave yoursel' before folk,
==Behave yoursel' before folk;
=Nor gi'e the tongue o' auld or young
==Occasion to come o'er folk.

It's no through hatred o' a kiss,
That I sae plainly tell you this;
But losh! I tak' it sair amiss
=To be sae teazed before folk.
==Behave yoursel' before folk,
==Behave yoursel' before folk;
=When we're our lane ye may tak' ane,
==But fient a ane before folk.

I'm sure wi' you I've been as free
As ony modest lass should be;
But yet, it doesna do to see
=Sic freedom used before folk.
==Behave yoursel' before folk,
==Behave yoursel' before folk;
=I'll ne'er submit again to it-
==So mind you that-before folk.

Ye tell me that my face is fair;
It may be sae-I dinna care-
But ne'er again gar't blush sae sair
=As ye ha'e done before folk
==Behave yoursel' before folk,
==Behave yoursel' before folk;
=Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks,
==But aye be douce before folk.

Ye tell me that my lips are sweet,
Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit;
At ony rate, it's hardly meet
=To pree their sweets before folk.
==Behave yoursel' before folk,
==Behave yoursel' before folk;
=Gin that's the case, there's time and place,
==But surely no before folk.

But, gin you really do insist
That I should suffer to be kiss'd,
Gae, get a license frae the priest,
=And mak' me yours before folk.
==Behave yoursel' before folk,
==Behave yoursel' before folk;
=And when we're ane, bluid, flesh and bane,
==Ye may tak' ten-before folk.





THE ANSWER.

==CAN I behave, can I behave,
==Can I behave before folk,
=When, wily elf, your sleeky self
==Gars me gang gyte before folk?

In a' ye do, in a' ye say,
Ye've sic a pawkie, coaxing way,
That my poor wits ye lead astray,
=An' ding me doilt before folk?
==Can I behave, can I behave,
==Can I behave before folk,
=While ye ensnare, can I forbear
==A-kissing, though before folk?

Can I behold that dimpling cheek,
Whar love 'mang sunny smiles might beek,
Yet, howlet-like, my e'e-lids steek,
=An' shun sic light, before folk?
==Can I behave, can I behave,
==Can I behave before folk,
=When ilka smile becomes a wile,
==Enticing me-before folk?

That lip, like Eves forbidden fruit,
Sweet, plump, an' ripe, sae tempts me to't,
That I maun pree't, though I should rue't,
=Ay, twenty times-before folk?
==Can I behave, can I behave,
==Can I behave before folk,
=When temptingly it offers me
==So rich a treat-before folk?

That gowden hair sae sunny bright;
That shapely neck o' snawy white;
That tongue, even when it tries to flyte,
=Provokes me till't before folk!
==Can I behave, can I behave,
==Can I behave before folk,
=When ilka charm, young, fresh, an' warm,
==Cries, "Kiss me now" - before folk?

An' oh! that pawkie, rowin' e'e,
Sae roguishly it blinks on me,
I canna, for my saul, let be,
=Frae kissing you before folk!
==Can I behave, can I behave,
==Can I behave before folk,
=When ilka glint conveys a hint
==To tak' a smack-before folk?

Ye own, that were we baith our lane,
Ye wadna grudge to grant me ane;
Weel, gin there be nae harm in't then,
=What harm is in't before folk?
==Can I behave, can I behave,
==Can I behave before folk?
=Sly hypocrite! an anchorite
==Could scarce desist before folk!

But after a' that has been said,
Since ye are willing to be wed,
We'll hae a "blythesome bridal" made,
=When ye'll be mine before folk!
==Then I'll behave, then I'll behave,
==Then I'll behave before folk,
=For whereas then ye'll aft get "ten,"
==It winna be before folk!





MARRY FOR LOVE AND WORK FOR SILLER.

WHEN I and my Jenny thegither were tied,
=We had but sma' share o' the world between us;
Yet lo'ed ither weel, and had youth on our side,
=And strength and guid health were abundantly gi'en us;
I warsled and toiled through the _fair_ and the _foul_,
=And she was right carefu' o' what I brought till her,
For aye we had mind o' the canny auld rule,
="Marry for love, and work for siller."

Our bairns they cam' thick-we were thankfu' for that,
=For the _bit_ and the _brattie_ cam' aye alang wi' them;
Our _pan_ we exchanged for a guid _muckle pat_,
=And somehow or ither, we aye had to gi'e them.
Our laddies grew up, and they wrought wi' mysel',
=Ilk ane gat as buirdly and stout as a miller,
Our lasses they keepit us trig aye, and hale,
=And now we can count a bit trifle o' siller.

But I and my Jenny are baith wearin' down,
=And our lads and our lasses hae a' gotten married;
Yet see, we can rank wi' the best i' the town,
=Though our noddles we never too paughtily carried.
And mark me-I've now got a braw _cockit hat_,
=And in our _civic building_ am reckon'd a pillar;
Is na THAT a bit honour for ane to get at,
=Wha married for love, and wha wrought for siller?





SHON M'NAB.

TUNE - "_For a' that an' a' that._"

NAINSEL pe Maister Shon M'Nab,
=Pe aulds ta Forty-five, man,
And mony troll affairs she's seen,
=Since she was born alive, man;
She's seen the warl' turn upside down,
=Ta shentleman turn poor man,
And him was ance ta beggar loon,
=Get knocker 'pon him's door, man.

She's seen ta stane bow't owre ta purn,
=And syne be ca'd ta prig, man;
She's seen ta Whig ta Tory turn,
=Ta Tory turn ta Whig, man;
But a' ta troll things she pe seen,
=Wad teuk twa days to tell, man,
So, gin you likes, she'll told your shust
=Ta story 'bout hersel', man:-

Nainsel was first ta herd ta kyes,
='Pon Morven's ponnie praes, man,
Whar tousand pleasant days she'll spent,
=Pe pu ta nits and slaes, man;
An' ten she'll be ta _herring-poat_,
=An' syne she'll pe fish-cod, man,
Ta place tey'll call Newfoundhims-land,
=Pe far peyont ta proad, man.

But, och-hon-ee! one misty night,
=Nainsel will lost her way, man,
Her poat was trown'd, hersel' got fright,
=She'll mind till dying day, man.
So fait! she'll pe fish-cod no more,
=But back to Morven cam, man,'
An' tere she turn ta whisky still,
=Pe prew ta wee trap tram, man:

But foul pefa' ta gauger loon,
=Pe put her in ta shail, man,
Whar she wad stood for mony a tay,
=Shust 'cause she no got bail, man;
But out she'll got - nae matters hoo,
=And came to Glasgow town, man,
Whar tousand wonders _mhor_ she'll saw
=As she went up and down, man.

Ta first thing she pe wonder at,
=As she cam' down ta street, man,
Was man's pe traw ta cart himsel',
=Shust 'pon him's nain twa feet, man.
Och on! och on! her nainsel thought,
=As she wad stood and glower, man,
Puir man! if they mak' you ta _horse_-
=Should gang 'pon a' your _four_, man.

And when she turned ta corner round,
=Ta black man tere she see, man,
Pe grund ta music in ta kist,
=And sell him for pawpee, man;
And aye she'll grund, and grund, and grund,
=And turn her mill about, man,
Pe strange! she will put nothing in,
=Yet aye teuk music out, man.

And when she'll saw ta peoples walk,
=In crowds alang ta street, man,
She'll wonder whar tay a' got spoons
=To sup teir pick o' meat, man;
For in ta place whar she was porn,
=And tat right far awa', man,
Ta teil a spoon in a' ta house,
=But only ane or twa, man.

She glower to see ta Mattams, too,
=Wi' plack clout 'pon teir face, man,
Tey surely tid some graceless teed,
=Pe in sic black disgrace, man;
Or else what for tey'll hing ta clout,
=Owre prow, and cheek, and chin, man,
If no for shame to show teir face,
=For some ungodly sin, man?

Pe strange to see ta wee bit kirn,
=Pe jaw the waters out, man,
And ne'er rin dry, though she wad rin
=A' tay like mountain spout, man;
Pe stranger far to see ta lamps,
=Like spunkies in a raw, man;
A' pruntin pright for want o' oil,
=And teil a wick ava, man.

Ta Glasgow folk be unco folk,
=Hae tealings wi' ta teil, man,-
Wi' fire tey grund ta tait o' woo,
=Wi' fire tey card ta meal, man;
Wi' fire tey spin, wi' fire tey weave,
=Wi' fire do ilka turn, man,
Na, some o' tem will eat ta fire,
=And no him's pelly purn, man.

Wi' fire tey mak' ta coach pe rin,
=Upon ta railman's raw, man,
Nainsel will saw him teuk ta road,
=An' teil a horse to traw, man;
Anither coach to Paisley rin,
=Tey'll call him Lauchie's motion,
But oich! she was plawn a' to bits
=By rascal rogue M'Splosion.

Wi' fire tey mak' ta vessels rin
=Upon ta river Clyde, man,
She saw't hersel', as sure's a gun,
=As she stood on ta side, man:
But gin you'll no pelieve her word,
=Gang to ta Proomielaw, man,
You'll saw ta ship wi' twa mill-wheels,
=Pe grund ta water sma', man.

Oich! sic a town as Glasgow town,
=She never see pefore, man,
Ta houses tere pe mile and mair,
=Wi' names 'poon ilka toor, man.
An' in teir muckle windows tere,
=She'll saw't, sure's teath, for sale, man,
Praw shentlemans pe want ta head,
=An' leddies want ta tail, man.

She wonders what ta peoples do,
=Wi' a' ta praw things tere, man,
Gie her ta prose, ta kilt, an' hose,
=For tem she wadna care, man.
And aye gie her ta pickle sneesh,
=And wee drap parley pree, man,
For a' ta praws in Glasgow town,
=She no gie paw-prown-pee, man.





LO'E ME LITTLE AND LO'E ME LANG.

AWA' wi' your wheezing, your coaxing, and teasing,
=Your hugging and squeezing I beg you'll let be;
Your praising sae fulsome, too sweet to be wholesome,
=Can never gang down wi' a lassie like me;
Nae mair than a woman, nae higher than human,
=To Sylphs and to Seraphs I dinna belang;
Then if ye wad gain me, the way to attain me,
=Is "Lo'e me little, and lo'e me lang."

Wi' some silly gawkie, your fleeching sae pawkie,
=Like sweet dozing draughts, will glide cannily down;
Hence, seek some vain hizzie, and doze her till dizzy,
=She'll quickly consent a' your wishes to crown;
But pester na me wi't, my heart canna 'gree wi't,
=I'm sick o' your cuckoo's unvarying sang
Cease, therefore, your canting, your rhyming and ranting,
=But "Lo'e me little, and lo'e me lang."

The love that lowes strongest, say, lasts it the longest?
=The fires that bleeze brightest burn soonest awa';
Then keep your flame steady-a moderate red aye,
=Or else ye may yet hae a cauld coal to blaw;
And quat your romantics, your airs, and your antics,
=Tak' truth's honest track, and ye'll seldom gae wrang,
Then win me, and welcome, let weal or let ill come,
=I'll "Lo'e you little, but lo'e you lang."





COLIN DULAP.

WE'RE muckle obliged to you, Colin Dulap,
We're muckle obliged to you, Colin Dulap;
Ye're truly a worthy auld patriot chap,
To enlighten your country sae, Colin Dulap.

Ye patronize _lear_, and ye propagate _licht_,
To guide erring man in the way that is richt;
Ne'er under a bushel your candle you clap,
But let it lowe openly, Colin Dulap.

A _burning_ and _shining_ licht close by the Clyde,
Illuming the country around, far and wide;
Ye bleeze like a beacon upon a hill tap-
A general benefit, Colin Dulap.

Frank Jeffrey and Chalmers, and Brougham, and so forth,
Diffuse their cheap tracks to enlighten the earth;
Mony thanks to the chiels for this praiseworthy stap;
Mony mae thanks to you, honest Colin Dulap.

Your licht unto me has been better than theirs-
For ay when in Glasgow at markets or fairs,
And daundering hame rather licht in the tap,
Ye're a licht to my feet, worthy Colin Dulap.

The burns and the bog-holes, the dubs and the dykes,
The howes and the humplocks, the sheughs and the sykes,
And ilk thing against whilk my head I micht rap,
Ye help me to shun them a', Colin Dulap.

Even Spunkie himsel' is nae bogle to me,
When out through the moss I march homeward wi' glee;
Wi' my cud in my nieve-in my noddle a drap,
Cheered onward by thee, my guide, Colin Dulap.

We pay for the sun and we pay for the moon,
We pay for ilk stairnie that blinks frae aboon;
But your kindly licht never costs us a rap,
'Tis as free as the air to us, Colin Dulap.

The sun I like weel, gin the sun wad bide still,
But then ilka nicht he slides doon 'yont the hill,
Like a plump ruddy carle gaun to tak' his bit nap;
You never forsake us sae, Colin Dulap.

Na, waur! - ilk winter he's aff and awa',
Like our fine bloods, to Italy, shunning the snaw,
Scarce deigning a blink o'er a hoary hill tap,
But you're ever wi' us, kind Colin Dulap.

The moon does fu' weel when the moon's in the lift,
But, oh! the loose limmer tak's mony a shift,
Whiles here and whiles there, and whiles under a hap,
But yours is the steady licht, Colin Dulap.

Na, mair! like true friendship, the mirker the nicht,
The mair you let out your vast volume of licht-
When sackcloth and sadness the heavens enwrap,
'Tis then you're maist kind to us, Colin Dulap.

The day and the nicht unto you are the same,
For still ye spread out your braid sheet o' red flame;
When this weary world soundly tak's its bit nap,
You sleep not, you slumber not, Colin Dulap.

The folks about Glasgow may brag o' their gas,
That just, like a' glaring things, pleases the mass;
Gin they're pleased wi't themsel's, I'll ne'er snarl nor snap,
Quite contented wi' you, friendly Colin Dulap.

Aye, aften I'm muckle behadden to you,
While wauchlin' alang between sober an' fou,
Wi' a stoiter to this side, to that side a stap,
Ye shaw me the gate aye, guid Colin Dulap.

Gin neighbouring farmers felt gratefu' like me,
They'd club a' thegither a present to gi'e,
O' a massy punch-bowl, wi' a braw mounted _cap_,
To the man that befriends them aye, Colin Dulap.

I ken for mysel' that a gift I intend,
To ane that sae often has proved my gude friend-
O' a braw braid blue bonnet, wi' strawberry tap,
To be worn ay on New'rdays, by Colin Dulap.

I canna weel reckon how lang ye ha'e shin'd,
But I'm sure it's as lang as my mither has mind;
And in a' that lang while there has ne'er been a gap
In your body o' licht, canty Colin Dulap.

Oh! lang may ye shine to enlighten us here,
And when you depart for some new unknown sphere,
That to shine on more glorious may still be your hap,
Is the prayer o' your weelwisher, Colin Dulap.





SANCT MUNGO.

SANCT MUNGO wals ane famous sanct,
=And ane cantye carle wals hee,
He drank o' ye Molendinar Burne,
=Quhan bettere hee culdna prie;
Zit quhan he culd gette strongere cheere,
=He neuer wals wattere drye,
Butte dranke o' ye streame o' ye wimpland worme,
=And loot ye burne rvnne bye.

Sanct Mungo wals ane merrye sanct,
=And merrylye hee sang;
Quhaneuer hee liltit uppe hys sprynge,
=Ye very Firre Parke rang;
Butte thoch hee weele culd lilt and synge,
=And mak sweet melodye,
He chauntit aye ye bauldest straynes,
=Quhan prymed wi' barley-bree.

Sanct Mungo wals ane godlye sanct,
=Farre-famed for godlye deedis.
And grete delyte hee daylye took
=Inn countynge owre hys beadis;
Zit I, Sanct Mungo's youngeste sonne,
=Can count als welle als hee,
Butte ye beadis quilk I like best to count
=Are ye beadis o' barlye-bree.

Sanct Mungo wals ane jolly sanct:-
=Sa weele hee lykit gude zil,
Thatte quhyles hee staynede hys quhyte vesture,
=Wi' dribblands o' ye still;
Butte I, hys maist unwordye sonne,
=Haue gane als farre als hee,
For ance I tynde my garmente skirtis,
=Throuch lufe o' barlye-bree.





O MITHER! ONY BODY.

AIR - "_Sir Alex. M'Donald's Reel._"

"O mither, ony body!
"Ony body! ony body!
"O mither, ony body!
="But a creeshy weaver.
"A weaver's just as good as nane,
"A creature worn to skin and bane,
"I'd rather lie through life my lane,
="Than cuddle wi' a weaver."

The lassie thocht to catch a laird,
But fient a ane about her cared;
For nane his love had e'er declared,
=Excepting, whiles-a weaver.
Yet ne'er a weaver wad she tak',
But a' that cam' she sent them back,
An' bann'd them for a useless pack,
=To come nae mair an' doave her.

Their sowen crocks-their trantlum gear-
Their trash o' pirns she coudna bear;
An' aye the ither jibe and jeer,
=She cuist at ilka weaver.
But sair she rued her pridefu' scorn,
Ere _thretty nicks_ had marked her horn,
For down she hurkled a' forlorn,
=In solitude to grieve her.

She gaed to kirk, she gaed to fair,
She spread her _lure_, she set her _snare_,
But ne'er a _nibble_ gat she there,
=Frae _leading apes_, to save her.
At last, unto the barn she gaed,
An' ilka e'ening duly pray'd,
That some ane might come to her aid,
=An' frae her wants relieve her.

An' thus the lassie's prayer ran-
"O send thy servant some bit man,
"Before her cheeks grow bleach'd an' wan,
="An' a' her beauties leave her."
A weaver lad wha ance had woo'd,
But cam' nae speed, do a' he could,
Now thocht her pride might be subdued,
=An' that he yet might have her.

He watch'd when to the barn she gaed,
An' while her bit request she made,
In solemn tone he slowly said-
="Lass-will ye tak' a weaver?"
"Thy will be done-I'm now content,
"Just ony body ere I want,
"I'll e'en be thankfu' gin you grant
="That I may get a weaver."

The weaver, he cam' yont neist day,
An' sought her hand-she ne'er said "nay,"
But thocht it time to mak' her hay,
=So jumpit at the weaver.
Now, ye whase beauty's on the wane,
Just try the barn, at e'en yer lane,
Sma' fish are better far than nane,
=Ye'll maybe catch a weaver.





MY COUNTRY.

MY Country, my Country! - O there is a charm
And spell in that sound, which must every heart warm;
Let us pant at the Line, let us freeze at the Pole,
Pronounce but my Country - it thrills through my soul.

And where lies the charm in that all-potent sound,
That is felt and acknowledged where'er man is found?
And why is our Country-the land of our birth-
The sweetest-the loveliest spot upon earth?

Say; is it in climate? in soil? or in sky?
In gay sunny landscapes that ravish the eye?
In rich golden harvests in mines of bright ore?
It may be in these - but there's still something more:

The deeds of our fathers, in times that are gone;
Their virtues, their prowess, the fields they have won;
Their struggles for freedom; the toils they endured;
The rights and the blessings for us they procured:

Our music, our language, our laws, our great men,
Who have raised themselves high by the sword or the pen;
Our productions of genius, the fame of our arms,
Our youths' native courage, our maidens' soft charms:

The dreams of our childhood, the scenes of our youth,
When life's stainless current ran placidly smooth;
Our friends, homes, and altars; our substance, though small,
And one lovely object, the sweetener of all.

From these, and ten thousand endearments beside-
From these spring the charm that makes Country our pride;
And what wanting these would a paradise be?
A waste-a dark cell-a lone rock in the sea.

The adventurous emigrant, launched on the main,
Who goes to behold not his Country again,
What painful reflections must rush through his mind,
As he takes the last look of the shores left behind:-

The long cherished spot where to manhood he grew,
The friends whom he loved, the acquaintance he knew;
Parents, children, or wife, left behind broken-hearted,
The mutual sorrows that flowed when they parted;

A Country before him, all strange and unknown,
Where no heart in unison beats with his own-
Such thoughts through his mind that sad moment will rush,
While big swelling drops from his straining eyes gush.

But the merchant or warrior, absent afar
From his Country, engaged in her commerce or war,
Returning, at last, what a flood of delight
Fills his soul, when his Country first breaks on his sight!

How cheering the hope, that he shortly will meet,
The warm grasp of friendship, or love still more sweet!
And while his heart bounds toward home's hallowed spot,
Even _Watch_, the old house-dog, is then not forgot.

But, Oh! it is only the man who is free,
That can boast, "I've a Country that smiles upon me;"
The captive and slave who in wretchedness moan,
Alas! they can scarce call their Country their own.

The Laplander, coursing his deserts of snow,
Possessing his rein-deer, his sledge, and his bow;
On Lapland though warm summer suns rarely beam,
No Country on earth is like Lapland-to him.

Though scanty his fare, yet, content with his lot,
The terrors of slavery trouble him not;
He bounds free as air o'er his own native snows,
Secure in his poverty, fearing no foes.

But the ill-fated Negro from home rudely torn,
And o'er the Atlantic a poor captive borne;
How frantic the grief of his untutored mind,
While sharp galling fetters his manly limbs bind:

Pent up in a dungeon, deprived of fresh air-
The victim of sorrow, disease, and despair-
Behold the poor negro-man, panting for breath,
And gasping, and struggling, and praying for death:

Now see him, poor wretch! to the slave-market brought,
Like the ox of the stall, to be sold-to be bought,
Condemned to hard toil, by the cruel whip flayed;
Oh, God! was't for this, that the negro was made?

A captive-a slave, on a far foreign coast,
Where now is his Country? - To him it is lost;
A sad recollection is all he has left
Of home's sweet endearments, from him wholly reft.

But the time may arrive yet, when HE, even HE!
Will burst his vile fetters, and rank with the free;
How glorious to see him then, treading the sod,
Erect-independent-the image of God.

O, Haytians! how noble a cause have you won;
You now have a Country, who lately had none;
The trammels that bound you, in shivers you've broke;
And scorned now alike, are the tyrant and yoke.

The children of Judah in warfare o'ercome,
And borne away captive afar from their home,
By Babylon's rivers how loud was their moan,
While they wept their lost Country, laid waste and o'erthrown.

Their Zion consumed, and their temple defiled,
Of all its rich ornaments robbed and despoiled;
Its vessels, for God's holy service ordained,
By lips, all unholy and impious, profaned.

No wonder, then, Judah's sad children deplored
The havoc and rage of the conqueror's sword;
For while, mocked and insulted, in bondage they lay,
What Temple-what Zion-what Country had they?

Not so, the brave Greeks, when obliged to retreat
From their Athens destroyed, and retire to their fleet,
Oh, say, when their city was one smoking heap,
Say, where was their Athens? - 'Twas then on the deep.

Yes, they had a Country, for still they were free;
To no foreign conqueror bent they the knee;
Their fields might be wasted, their homes wrapt in flame,
Their fleet and their freedom were Country to them.

O, glorious example, by patriots of old-
Would to God that their sons were but now half so bold!
One gleam of the steel only waved by such hands,
Were sufficient to wither the whole Moslem bands.

Then freedom again would smile lovely on Greece,
And rapine, and murder, and tyranny cease;
And Athens and Sparta we yet might behold,
Out-rivalling Athens and Sparta of old.

And the Hellenists-lords of their own native soil-
Would reap unmolested the fruits of their toil;
And their Country, no longer by slavery debased,
Would present one vast Temple to Liberty raised!

Then slice it is freedom, and freedom alone,
That halloweth Country and makes it our own;
May she march with the sun, like the sun may she blaze,
Till the whole earth be gilded and warmed by her rays.

Accurst be the villain, and shunned by mankind,
Who would fetter the body, or trammel the mind;
May his name be detested, himself from earth driven,
Who thus would rob man of the best gift of heaven!

But honoured and blest be the patriot chief,
Who fearlessly struggles for mankind's relief;
In his Country's affections, long, long may he bloom,
And his memory shed an eternal perfume!

And O, my dear Country! wherever I be,
My first-my last prayer shall ascend still for thee,
That thou mayest flourish, as lasting as time,
UNBLIGHTED BY SLAVERY, UNSULLIED BY CRIME.





AH NO! - I CANNOT SAY.

AH no! - I cannot say "farewell,"
='Twould pierce my bosom through,
And to this heart 'twere death's dread knell
=To hear thee sigh - "adieu."
Though soul and body both must part,
=Yet ne'er from thee I'll sever,
For more to me than soul thou art,
=And O! I'll quit thee-never.

Whate'er through life may be thy fate
=That fate with thee I'll share,
If prosperous-be moderate,
=If adverse-meekly bear;
This bosom shall thy pillow be
=In every change whatever,
And tear for tear I'll shed with thee,
=But O! forsake thee-never.

One home-one hearth shall ours be still,
=And one our daily fare;
One altar, too, where we may kneel
=And breathe our humble prayer;
And one our praise that shall ascend
=To one all-bounteous Giver,
And one our will, our aim, our end,
=For O! we'll sunder-never.

And when that solemn hour shall come
=That sees thee breathe thy last,
That hour shall also fix my doom,
=And seal my eyelids fast;
One grave shall hold us, side by side,
=One shroud our clay shall cover-
And one then may we mount and glide
=Through realms of love-for ever.





THE DRYGATE BRIG.

LAST Monday night, at sax o'clock,
=To Mirran Gibb's I went, man,
To snuff, an' crack, an' toom the cap,
=It was my hale intent, man:
So down I sat an' pried the yill,
Syne luggit out my sneeshin' mill,
An' took a pinch wi' right good will,
O' beggar's brown (the best in town),
Then sent it roun' about the room,
=To gie ilk ane a scent, man.

The sneeshin' mill, the cap gaed round,
=The joke, the crack an' a', man,
'Bout markets, trade, and daily news,
=To wear the time awa', man;
Ye never saw a blither set
O queer auld-fashion'd bodies met,
For feint a grain o' pride nor pet,
Nor eating care got footing there,
But friendship rare, aye found sincere,
=An' hearts without a flaw, man.

To cringing courtiers, kings may blaw,
=How rich they are an' great, man,
But kings could match na us at a',
=Wi' a' their regal state, man;
For Mirran's swats, sae brisk an' fell,
An' Turner's snuff, sae sharp an' snell,
Made ilk ane quite forget himsel',
Made young the auld, inflamed the cauld,
An' fired the saul wi' projects bauld,
=That daur'd the power o' fate, man.

But what are a' sic mighty schemes,
=When ance the spell is broke, man,
A set o' maut-inspired whims,
=That end in perfect smoke, man.
An' what like some disaster keen,
Can chase the glamour frae our een,
An' bring us to oursel's again?
As was the fate o' my auld pate,
When that night late, I took the gate,
=As crouse as ony cock, man.

For, sad misluck! without my hat,
=I doiting cam' awa', man,
An' when I down the Drygate cam',
=The win' began to blaw, man.
When I cam' to the Drygate Brig,
The win' blew aff my gude brown wig,
That whirled like ony whirligig,
As up it flew, out o' my view,
While I stood glow'ring, waefu' blue,
=Wi' wide extended jaw, man.

When I began to grape for't syne,
=Thrang poutrin wi' my staff, man,
I coupit owre a meikle stane,
=An' skailed my pickle snuff, man;
My staff out o' my hand did jump,
An' hit my snout a dreadfu' thump,
Whilk raised a most confounded lump,
But whar it flew, I never knew,
Yet sair I rue this mark sae blue,
=It looks sae fleesome waif; man.

O had you seen my waefu' plight,
=Your mirth had been but sma', man,
An' yet, a queerer antic sight,
=I trow ye never saw, man.
I've lived thir fifty years an' mair,
But solemnly I here declare,
I ne'er before met loss sae sair;
My wig flew aff, I tint my staff,
I skail'd my snuff, I peel'd my loof,
=An' brak my snout an' a', man.

Now, wad you profit by my loss?
=Then tak' advice frae me, man,
An' ne'er let common sense tak' wing,
=On fumes o' barley bree, man;
For drink can heeze a man sae high,
As mak' his head 'maist touch the sky,
But down he tumbles by-an'-by,
Wi' sic a thud, 'mang stanes an mud,
That aft it's gude, if dirt an' bluid,
=Be a' he has to dree, man.





WHETHER OR NO.

MANG a' the braw lads that come hither to woo me.
=There's on'y but ane I wad fain mak' my joe; 
And though I seem shy, yet sae dear is he to me,
=I scarce can forgie mysel' when I say "No."
My sister she sneers 'cause he hasna the penny,
=An' cries, "ye maun reap, my lass, just as ye sow,"
My brither he bans, but it's a' ane to Jenny,
=She'll just tak' the lad she likes - whether or no.

My father he cries, "tak' the laird o' Kinlogie,
=For he has baith mailins and gowd to bestow:"
My mither cries neist, "tak' the heir o' Glenbogie,"
=But can I please baith o' them? - weel I wat no!
And since 'tis mysel' maun be gainer or loser-
=Maun drink o' life's bicker, be't weal or be't woe,
I deem it but fair I should be my ain chooser;-
=To love will I lippen, then-whether or no.

Cauld Prudence may count on his gowd and his acres,
=And think them the sum o' a' blessings below,
But tell me, can wealth bring content to its makers?
=The care-wrinkled face o' the miser says "No!"
But oh when pure love meets a love corresponding,
=Such bliss it imparts as the world cannot know;
It lightens life's load, keeps the heart from desponding,
=Let Fate smile or scowl, it smiles - whether or no!





THE TINKLER'S SONG.

AIR - "_Allan-a-Dale._"

O WHO are so hearty, so happy and free,
Or who for the proud care so little as we?
No tyrants control us, no slaves we command,
Like free passage-birds we traverse sea and land;
And still to the comfort of all we attend,
By singing out, "Caldrons or kettles to mend."

Each climate-each soil, is to us still the same,
No fix'd local spot for our country we claim;
Yon lordly domain, with its castles and towers,
We care not a pin for-the world it is ours;
Superiors we know not-on none we depend,
While our business is, caldrons or kettles to mend.

The law says we're vagrants-the law tells a lie,
The green earth's our dwelling, our roof the blue sky,
Then tho' through the earth, for employment we roam,
How can we be vagrants, who ne'er are from home?
Our neighbours are mankind, whom oft we befriend,
While trudging about, pots or kettles to mend.

No rent, tithes, nor taxes, we're called on to pay,
We take up our lodgings wherever we may,
If people are kind, we show kindness to them,
If people are churlish, why, we are the same;
But those who are friendly fare best in the end,
While their pots, bellows, caldrons or kettles we mend.

Not even the parson, the squire, nor my lord,
A daintier supper than we can afford,
For nature profusely each blessing doth grant,
Then why should her children be ever in want?-
Let them share with each other whate'er she may send,
Like us-while we've caldrons or kettles to mend.

Then fill to the stranger a cup of the best,
And when he is wearied conduct him to rest,
For the poor lonely wanderer, homeless and bare,
Should ever the wanderers' sympathy share;
Now we've one consolation - whate'er be our end,
While the world remains wicked - _we_ daily do _mend_.





LAUCHIE FRASER'S PROMOTIONS.

AIR - "_Johnnie Cope._"

NAINSEL' she was porn 'mang ta Hielan' hills,
'Mang ta goats, an' ta sheeps, an' ta whiskee stills,
An' ta brochan, an' brogues, an' ta snuishin' mills,
=Oich! she was ta ponnie land she was porn in;
For a' ta lads there will be shentlemans porn,
An' will wear _skean-dhu_ an' ta praw snuishin' horn,
An' ta fine tartan brews her braw houghs to adorn,
=An' mak' her look fu' spruce in ta mornin'.

Noo, ta shentlemans will no like to be wroughtin' at a',
But she'll sit py ta _grieshach_ her haffets to claw;
An' pe birsle her shanks till they're red as ta haw,
=An' a' fu' o' measles ilka mornin'.
But her nainsel' at last to ta Lalans cam' doon,
An' will get her a place 'mang ta _mhor_ Glaschow toon;
Whar she's noo _prush-ta-poot_ an' pe _polish-ta-shoon_,
=An' pe shentleman's _flunkie_ in ta mornin'.

But at last she will turn very full o' ta _proud_,
An' she'll hold up her heads, an' she'll spoke very loud,
An' she'll look wi' disdains 'pon ta low tirty crowd,
=Tat will hing 'pout ta doors ilka mornin'.
Noo, her nainsel' is go to have one merry ball,
Whar she'll dance _Killum Callum_, hoogh! ta best o' them all,
For ta ponniest dancer she'll pe in ta hall,
=Ay, either 'mang ta evenin' or mornin'.

Ither lads will have lassies, hersel' will have _no_,
It pe far too expense wi' ta _lassie_ to go;
So she'll shust dance hersel', her fine _preedings_ to show,
=Tat she learn 'mang ta place she was porn in.
Then ta lads will cry "Lauchie, Where from did you'll cam',
Tat you'll not give ta lassie ta dance an' ta dram?"
But te're a' _trouster mosachs_, every one shust ta sam'
=They wad spulzie all her sporran ere ta mornin'.

Noo, she's thochtin' she'll yet turn a praw _waiter's pell_,
When she wear ta fine pump an' pe dress very well;
An' py Sheorge! ere she'll stop, she'll pe maister hersel',
=In spite o' a' their taunts an' their scornin'.
Syne wha like ta great Maister Fraser will pe,
When she'll hing up ta sign o' the "Golden Cross Key."
An' will sit in her parlour her orders to gie
=To her waiters an' her boots in ta mornin'?





BAULDY BUCHANAN.

O WHA hasna heard o' blythe Bauldy Buchanan?
A hale hearty carle o' some saxty years stan'in';
Gae search the hale kintra, frae Lanark to Lunnon,
Ye'll scarce find the match o' blythe Bauldy Buchanan,
For Bauldy's sae cracky, an' Bauldy's sae canty-
A frame o' threescore, wi' a spirit o' twenty-
Wi' his auld farrant tales, an' his jokin', an' funnin',
A rich an' rare treat is blythe Bauldy Buchanan.

Blythe Bauldy Buchanan's a wonderfu' drinker
O' knowledge-for he's a great reader an' thinker-
There's scarcely an author frae Bentham to Bunyan,
But has been run dry by blythe Bauldy Buchanan.
He kens a' the courses an' names o' the planets-
The secret manoeuvres o' courts an' o' senates-
Can tell you what day Babel's tower was begun on;-
Sae deep read in beuks is blythe Bauldy Buchanan.

He can play on the bag-pipe, the flute, and the fiddle,
Explain ony text, or expound ony riddle;
At deep calculation, at drawin', an' plannin',
There's naebody equal to Bauldy Buchanan.
He kens how the negroes are black and thick-lippit-
How leopards are spotted-how zebras are strippit-
How maidens in Turkey sae muckle are run on;-
Sae versed in sic matters is Bauldy Buchanan.

How the English like beer, an' the Scotch like their whisky-
How Frenchmen are temperate, lively, and frisky-
How the Turks are sae grave, an' the Greeks are sae cunnin',
Can a' be explained by blythe Bauldy Buchanan.
An' mair than a' that, he can trace out the cause
O' rain an' fair weather - o' frosts an' o' thaws-
An' what keeps the earth in its orbit still runnin';-
Sae wonderfu' learned is blythe Bauldy Buchanan.

When round his fireside neebours meet in the gloamin's,
An' hear him describe the auld Greeks an' the Romans-
How they battled an' fought without musket or cannon-
The folks glow'r wi' wonder at Bauldy Buchanan.
Or when he descends frae the grave to the witty,
An' tells some queer story, or sings some droll ditty,
Wi' his poetry, pleasantry, puzzlin', an' punnin',
Their sides are made sair wi' blythe Bauldy Buchanan.

But o' a' the attractions that Bauldy possesses,
His greatest attractions are twa bonnie lasses;
'Mang a' the fine leddies frae Crail to Clackmannan,
There's nane can match Bella an' Betty Buchanan.
For O, they're sae clever, sae frank, an' sae furthy,
Sae bonnie, sae bloomin', sae wise, an' sae worthy,
They keep the hale lads in the parish a-runnin'
An' strivin' for Bella an' Betty Buchanan.





DINNA FORGET.

AIR - "_When Adam at first was created._"

COME, put on thy finger this ring, love,
=And, when thou art far o'er the sea,
Perhaps to thy mind it will bring, love,
=Some thought-some remembrance-of me.
Our moments of rapture and bliss, love,
=The haunts where so oft we have met,
These tears, and this last parting kiss, love,
=It tells thee-O "dinna forget!"

We might look on yonder fair moon, love,
=Oft gazed on by us with delight,
And think of each other alone, love,
=At one sacred hour every night;
But, ah! ere she'd rise to thy view, love,
=To me she long, long would be set;
Then look to this token more true, love,
=On thy finger-and "dinna forget!"

Thou mayest meet faces more fair, love,
=And charms more attractive than mine;
Be moved by a more winning air, love,
=Or struck by a figure more fine:
But shouldst thou a brighter eye see, love,
=Or ringlets of more glossy jet,
Let this still thy talisman be, love,
=Look on it, and "dinna forget!"

And, oh when thou writest to me, love,
=The sealing impress with this ring;
And that a sweet earnest will be, love,
=To which, with fond hope, I will cling;
That thou to thy vows wilt be true, love;
=That happiness waiteth us yet;
One parting embrace-now adieu, love-
=This moment I'll never forget!





JAMIE M'NAB.

GAE find me a match for blythe Jamie M'Nab;
Ay, find me a match for blythe Jamie M'Nab;
The best piece o' _stuff_ cut frae Nature's ain _wab_,
Is that Prince o' guid fallows-blythe Jamie M'Nab.

In her kindliest mood Madam Nature had been
When first on this warld Jamie open'd his een,
For he ne'er gied a whimper, nor utter'd a sab,
But hame he cam' laughin'-blythe Jamie M'Nab.

In process o' time Jamie grew up apace,
And still play'd the smile on his round honest face,
Except when a tear, like a pure hinny-blab,
Was shed o'er the wretched by Jamie M'Nab.

And Jamie is still just the best o' gude chiels-
Wi' the cheerfu' he laughs, wi' the waefu' he feels;
And the very last shilling that's left in his fab,
He'll share wi' the needfu'-blythe Jamie M'Nab.

Blythe Jamie M'Nab is sae furthy and free,
While he's cracking wi' you, while he's joking wi' me,
That I ne'ee wad wish better than twa hour's confab
Owre a horn o' gude yill wi' blythe Jamie M'Nab.

Blythe Jamie M'Nab is nae thin airy ghaist,
For he measures an ell-and-twa-thirds round the waist;
Yet a wittier wag never trod on a slab,
Than that kind-hearted billie-blythe Jamie M'Nab.

Yes, Jamie has _bulk_, yet it damps not his glee,
But his flashes o' fancy come fervid and free;
As bright frae his brain, as if lively "Queen Mab"
Held nightly communings wi' Jamie M'Nab.

He tells sic queer stories, and rum funny jokes,
And mak's sic remarks upon a' public folks,
That Time rattles by like a beau in a cab,
When sitting and list'ning to Jamie M'Nab.

I carena for Tory-I carena for Whig-
I mindna your Radical raver a fig;
But gie me the man that is staunch as a stab
For the rights o' his CASTE, like blythe Jamie M'Nab.

Amang the saft sex, too, he shows a fine taste,
By admiring what's handsome, and lovely and chaste;
But the lewd tawdry trollop, the tawpie, and drab,
Can never find favour wi' Jamie M'Nab.

Some folks, when they meet you, are wonderfu' fair,
And wad hug you as keen as an auld Norway bear;
The next time they see you, they're sour as a crab-
That's never the gate wi' blythe Jamie M'Nab.

No! - Jamie is ever the same open wight,
Aye easy, aye pleasant, frae morning till night;
While ilk man, frae my Lord down to plain simple Hab,
Gets the same salutation frae Jamie M'Nab.

Had mankind at large but the tithe o' his worth,
We then might expect a pure heaven on earth;
Nae rogues then would fash us wi' _grip_ an' wi' _grab_,
But a' wad be neebours-like Jamie M'Nab.

Lang, lang hae blythe Jamie and Samuel the sage.
Together sped on to the ripeness of age;
But "_live by the way_" - (we must needs pick and dab)
Is the motto of Samuel and Jamie M'Nab.

And on may they speed as they've hitherto done,
And lang rin the course they have hitherto run;
Wi' a pound in their pouch and a watch in their fab,
Sage Samuel the soncy-blythe Jamie M'Nab.

Yes-lang may the SONCY GUDEMAN o' the _Herald_,
Wi' Jamie M'Nab, wauchle on through this warld;
And when, on life's e'ening, cauld death steeks his gab,
May he mount up on high - wi' blythe Jamie M'Nab.





THE HIGHLANDER'S WELCOME TO THE QUEEN.

AIR - "_Donald M'Donald._"

COME Tuncan, what for you be snorin'?
=Get up, man, an' on wi' your praw,
Your kilt, an' your hose, an' your sporran,
=Your plaid an' your ponnet an' a';
Our Queen-pless her ladyship's clory,
=Is coming to see us ev'n noo,
_Cresorst!_ tere be Lauchie an' Rory,
=An' a' ta lads waitin' 'pon you.

==T'en hoogh for her ponnie young Queen!
==An' heigh for her ponnie young Queen!
==Go, sought all ta Heelan' an' Lawlan',
==A prettier never was seen.

Our Queen, she pe Queen o' ta Heelan',
=An' Queen o' ta Lawlan' peside,
T'en quha wad refuse her a shielin'
=To shield her as lang as she'll pide.
Our faithers wad shelter Prince Sharlie,
=Poor lad, quhan she had not a hame:
Nainsel' love her Queen so sincerely,
=T'at for her she'll shust tid t'at same.

==T'en hoogh for her ponnie praw Queen!
==An' heigh for her ponnie praw Queen!
==Ta Heelan' man's ne'er pe tisloyal,
==Though change o' ta race the has seen.

Our chiefs, how their clans they pe gather,
=A' trest in their tartans sae praw,
To welcome our Queen to ta heather,
=An' ponnie Prince Alpert an' a'.
My sang! he's a fine tecent laddie,
=As praw as Prince Sharlie himsel',
An' sets, too, him's ponnet an' plaidie
=As weel as ta laird o' Dunkel'.

==T'en hoogh for our ponnie young Queen!
==An' heigh for our ponnie young Queen!
==Let's gie her a grand Heelan' welcome,
==Ta kindest t'at ever has peen.

Got pless you, our ponnie young leddy,
=If you'll 'mang ta Heelan' remain,
Our hearts an' claymores will be ready,
=Your honours an' rights to maintain.
Ta Gael has a hand for him's friend aye,
=An' likewise a hand for him's foe;
Ta Gael, your dear sel' she'll defend aye,
=An' guard you wherever you go.

==T'en welcome our ponnie young Queen!
==Thrice welcome our ponnie young Queen
==Ta Gael may be rude in him's manner,
==But quhar is ta warmer heart seen?





A MOTHER'S DAUTY.

AIR - "_My mither's aye glowrin' owre me._"

MY mither wad hae me weel married,
My mither wad hae me weel married;
=Na, she tries a' she can
=To get me a gudeman,
But as yet a' her plans hae miscarried.
To balls and to concerts she hies me,
And meikle braw finery buys me;
=But the men are sae shy,
=They just glow'r and gang by,
There's nane has the sense yet to prize me.

To ilka tea-party she tak's me,
And the theme o' her table-talk mak's me;
=But the folks leuk sae queer,
=When she cries "Lizzy! dear,"
That their conduct most grievously racks me.
She haurls me aff to the coast there,
Expecting to mak' me the toast there;
=But somehow or ither,
=A lass wi' her mither
Discovers her time is but lost there.

At the kirk, too, I'm made to attend her,
Not wholly heart-homage to render,
=But in rich "silken sheen,"
=Just to see and be seen,
And to dazzle the gowks wi' my splendour;
But for a' my sweet smirks and my glances,
There's never a wooer advances
=To oxter me hame,
=Wi' my dainty auld dame;
Alas, now, how kittle my chance is!

I'm sure I'm as good as my cousin,
Wha reckons her joes by the dizen;
=That besiege her in thrangs
=Ilka gate that she gangs,
A' swarmin' like bumbees a-bizzin'.
And for beauty, pray, what's a' her share o't?
Like me she could thole a hue mair o't;
=For it's granted by a',
=Though she dresses right braw,
She has wonderfu' little to spare o't.

But I trow I maun try a new plan yet,
And depend on _mysel'_ for a man yet;
=For my cousin Kate vows,
=That _some mithers are cowes_,
That wad scaur the best chiel 'at e'er ran yet.
An' gin I hae the luck to get married,
Gin I hae the luck to get married,
=Wi' a husband to guide,
=(Let Miss Kate then deride,)
I'll be proud that my point has been carried.





OUR AULD UNCLE JOHN.

AIR - "_When Autumn has laid her sickle by._"

OUR auld Uncle John is an odd sort o' chiel',
As prim as the priest, an' as deep as the deil,
He's proud o' his person, his parts, and his pelf,
But sae closely encased in the mail-coat o' self,
That if saving frae skaith wad but cost a bawbee,
Even that for his mither he scarcely wad gi'e.

Though now near the fifty-third milestane o' life,
He ne'er could be tempted to think on a wife.
"They're fashious," quo' John, "and they're costly beside,
Wi' their muffs, ruffs, and ruffles, their pinks and their pride;
Na, na," quo' our uncle, "nae woman for me,
The clack o' her clapper I never could dree."

Our auld Uncle John keeps a house by himsel',
But few, very few, ever tinkle his bell,
Except some poor victim to borrow or pay,
And wae on the debtor wha keeps na his day.
"Ye'll mind, Sir," quo' John, "that the rule is wi' me,
When due, ye maun pay me down plack an' bawbee."

Yet auld Uncle's biggin' is cosie and bein,
Where a' things are polish'd like ony new preen,
In ilk scouring dish you may view your ain face,
Ilk stool and ilk chair keeps its ain proper place,
Gin the carpet be crumpled, or hearth-rug ajee,
The moment it's noticed it righted maun be.

Gin the least puff o' reek down the vent chance to come,
He's up wi' the besom an' bannin' the lum;
Should a flee just but light on his winnock or wa',
He's up wi' the dishclout to daud it awa',-
"Get out o' my house, ye vile vermin," cries he,
"Though I've meat for mysel', I ha'e nane for the flee."

Nae poor beggar bodies e'er darken his door,
The print o' their bauchels would sully his floor;
The toon collies daurna snoke in as they pass,
E'en baudrons maun dight her saft feet on the bass.
"Ay, pussy! ye'll no quat your raking," quo' he,
"But just clean your feet ere you venture to me."

Our youngsters wad visit him last new-year's day,-
He ne'er bade them welcome, nor wish'd them to stay,
But dealt them a crust frae a hard penny brick,
Saying, "Now, weans, our cheese, ye see, winna cut thick;
Rin hame to yer mither, and tell her frae me,
I wantna your visits, - I've naething to gie."

Our auld Uncle John, when he sleeps his last sleep,
What friend will lament him - what kinsman will weep?
Poor pussy may miss him, but that will be a',
And her he just keeps to fricht mousie awa';
Weel-e'en lat him gang, never mair here to be,
A tear for his loss ne'er shall moisten an e'e.





HIGHLAND POLITICIANS.

COME, Tougall, tell me what you'll thocht
=Apout this Bill Reform, man,
Tat's preeding sic a muckle steer,
=An' like to raise ta storm, man;
For noo ta peoples meet in troves,
=On both sides o' ta Tweed, man,
An' spoket speechums loud an' lang,
=An' very pauld inteet, man.

'Teed, Tonald, lad, she'll no pe ken,
=For she's nae politish, man,
But for their speechums loud an' lang,
=She wadna gie ta sneesh, man;
For gin she'll thocht ta thing was richt,
=She wad her beetock traw, man,
An' feught like tamn-till ance ta Bill
=Was made coot Cospel law, man.

Hoot toot, man, Tougall! tat micht do
=When SHORDIE TWA did ring, man,
An' her fore-faiters trew ta tirk,
=To mak' teir Shairlie king, man;
But tirks, an' pistols, an' claymores,
=Pe no for me nor you, man;
Tey'll a' pe out o' fashions gane
=Since pluity Waterloo, man.

Last nicht she'll went to pay her rent,
=Ta laird gie her ta tram, man,
An' tell her tat this Bill Reform
=Was shust a nonsense tamn, man!
Pe no for honest mans, she'll say,
=Pe meddle 'ffairs o' State, man,
But leave those matter's to him's CRACE,
=Him's CLORY, an' ta great man.

She'll ta'k 'pout _Revolations_, too,
=Pe pad an' wicked thing, man,
Wad teuk awa' ta 'stinctions a',
=Frae peggar down to king, man;
Nae doubts, nae doubts, her nainsel' said,
=But yet tere's something worse, man,
To _Revolations_ tat will teuk
=Ta puir man's cow nor horse, man.

An' ten she'll wish ta _Ministers_
=Pe kicket frae teir place, man;
Och hon, och hon! her nainsel said,
=Tat wad pe wofu' case, man;
For gin ta _Ministers_ pe fa',
=_Precentors_ neist maun gang, man-
Syne wha wad in ta Punker stood,
=An' lilt ta godly sang, man?

Och! ten ta laird flee in a rage,
=An' _sinfu' deil_ me ca', man-
Me tell him no pe understood
=What him will spoke ava, man;
Ta sinfu' deil! - na, na, she'll say,
=She'll no pelang tat clan, man,
Hersel's a true an' trusty _Grant_,
=As goot as nitter man, man.

But, Tougall, lad! my 'pinion is,
=An' tat she'll freely gie, man,
Ta laird pe fear tat this reform
=Will petter you an' me, man;
For like some ither lairds, she still
=Wad ride upon our pack, man;
But fait! she'll maype saw ta day,
=Pe tell him 'nitter crack, man.

For _Shames ta feeter_ say this Bill
=Will mak' ta rents pe fa', man;
Pe mak' ta sneesh an' whisky cheap,
=Ta gauger chase awa', man;
An' ne'er let lairds nor factors more
=Pe do ta poor man's harm, man,
Nor purn him's house apoon him's head.
=An' trive him aff ta farm, man.

Weel, Tonald! gin I'll thochtit that,
=Reformer I will turn, man,
For wi' their 'pressions an' their scorns,
=My very pluit will purn, man:
Och, shust ta hae ta tay apout,
=Wi' some tat I will ken, man;
Tey'll prunt my house to _please ta laird_,
=Cot! let them try't again, man!





SWEET BET OF ABERDEEN.

AIR - "_The Rose of Allandale._"

How brightly beams the bonnie moon,
=Frae out the azure sky;
While ilka little star aboon
=Seems sparkling bright wi' joy.
How calm the eve! how blest the hour!
=How soft the sylvan scene!
How fit to meet thee-lovely flower!
=Sweet Bet of Aberdeen.

Now, let us wander through the broom,
=And o'er the flowery lea;
While simmer wafts her rich perfume.
=Frae yonder hawthorn tree:
There on yon mossy bank we'll rest,
=Where we've sae aften been,
Clasp'd to each other's throbbing breast,
=Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!

How sweet to view that face so meek-
=That dark expressive eye,-
To kiss that lovely blushing cheek,-
=Those lips of coral dye!
But O! to hear thy Seraph strains,
=Thy maiden sighs between,
Makes rapture thrill through all my veins-
=Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!

O! what to us is wealth or rank?
=Or what is pomp or power?
More dear this velvet mossy bank,-
=This blest ecstatic hour!
I'd covet not the Monarch's throne,
=Nor diamond-studded Queen,
While blest wi' thee, and thee alone,
=Sweet Bet of Aberdeen.





THE NAILER'S WIFE.

AIR - "_Willie Wastle._"

THERE lives a Nailer wast the raw,
=Wi' brain o' peat, an' skull o' putty;
He has a wife-gude saff us a'!
=A randy royt ca'd Barmy Betty!
==O sic a scauld is Betty!
==Och hey! how bauld is Betty!
==Xantippe's sel', wi' snash sae snell,
==Was but a lamb compared wi' Betty.

An' O but she's a grousome quean,
=Wi' face like ony big bass fiddle,
Twa flaming torches are her een,
=Her teeth could snap in bits-a griddle.
==O what a wicht is Betty!
==O sic a fricht is Betty!
==Wi' fiery een, an' furious mien,
==The queen o' terrors sure is Betty!

Ye've seen upon a rainy night,
=Upon the dark brown clouds refleckit,
Clyde Airn Warks' grim an' sullen light-
=Then, that's her brow when frowns bedeck it.
==O what a brow has Betty!
==O sic a cowe is Betty!
==Her vera glow'r turns sweet to sour,
==Sae baleful is the power o' Betty.

It had been good for you and me,
=Had mither Eve been sic a beauty,
She soon wad garr'd _auld Saunders_ flee
=Back to his dungeon dark an' sooty.
==O what a grin has Betty!
==O how like Sin is Betty!
==The auld "foul thief" wad seek relief,
==In his maist darksome den frae Betty.

Whene'er ye see a furious storm,
=Uprooting trees, an' lums down smashin',
Ye then may some idea form
=Of what she's like when in a passion.
==O what a barmy Betty!
==O sic a stormy Betty!
==The wind an' rain may lash the plain,
==But a' in vain they strive wi' Betty.

For then the weans she cuffs and kicks,
=In fau't or no, it mak's nae matter;
While trenchers, bowls, and candlesticks,
=Flee through the house wi' hailstane blatter.
==O what a hag is Betty!
==O sic a plague is Betty!
==Dog, cat, an' mouse a' flee the house,
==A-wondering what the deuce means Betty.

Her tongue-but to describe its power
=Surpasses far baith speech an' writing;
The Carron blast could never roar
=Like her, when she begins a flyting.
==O what a tongue has Betty!
==O siccan lungs has Betty!
==The blast may tire, the name expire,
==But nought can tire the tongue o' Betty.





MY GUDEMAN.

AIR - "_Loch-Erroch Side._"

MY gudeman says aye to me,
Says aye to me, says aye to me;
My gudeman says aye to me,
=Come, cuddle in my bosie!
Though wearin' auld, he's blyther still
Than mony a swankie youthfu' chiel,
An' a' his aim's to see me weel,
=And keep me snug an' cozie.

For though my cheeks where roses grew,
Hae tint their lively glowing hue,
My Johnnies just as kind an' true
=As if I still were rosy.
Our weel-worn gear he never drank,
He never lived aboon his rank,
Yet wi' a neebour blythe and frank.
=He could be as jocose aye.

We hae a hame, guid halesome cheer,
Contentment, peace, a conscience clear,
And rosy bairns, to us mair dear
=Than treasures o' Potosi;
Their minds are formed in virtue's school,
Their fauts are checked wi' temper cool,
For my gudeman mak's this his rule,
=To keep frae hasty blows, aye.

It ne'er was siller gart us wed,
Youth, health, and love were a' we had,
Possess'd o' these, we toil'd fu' glad,
=To shun want's bitter throes, aye;
We've had our cares, we've had our toils,
We've had our bits o' troubles whiles,
Yet, what o' that? my Johnny's smiles
=Shed joy o'er a' our woes, aye.

Wi' mutual aid we've trudged through life,
A kind gudeman, a cheerfu' wife;
And on we'll jog, unvexed by strife,
=Towards our journey's close, aye;
And when we're stretched upon our bier,
O may our souls, sae faithfu' here,
Together spring to yonder sphere,
=Where love's pure river flows, aye.





THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERKIP.

O'ER Cowal hills the sinking sun
=Was bidding Clutha's vale guid-day,
And, from his gorgeous golden throne,
=Was shedding evening's mildest ray,
As round the Cloch I bent my way,
=With buoyant heart and bounding skip,
To meet my lass, at gloaming grey,
=Amang the shaws of Inverkip.

We met-and what an eve of bliss!
=A richer, sweeter, never flew,
With mutual vow, with melting kiss,
=And ardent throb of bosoms true;
The bees, 'mid flowers of freshest hue,
=Would cease their honeyed sweets to sip,
If they her soft sweet lips but knew-
=The lovely lass of Inverkip.

Her ebon locks, her hazel eye,
=Her placid brow, so fair and meek,
Her artless smile, her balmy sigh,
=Her bonnie, blushing, modest cheek-
All these a stainless mind bespeak,
=As pure as is the lily's tip;
Then, O, may sorrow's breath so bleak
=Ne'er blight my Bud of Inverkip.





SIR BENJAMIN BUFFSTRAP.

AIR - "_Black Jock._"

HAVE you heard of Sir Benjamin Buffstrap, the Broad,
That knight of the razor so outre and odd-
=The barbarous barber of Barrowfield bar?
Sure a sharper short shaver has seldom been seen,
With his buffstrap so black and his blades all so keen,
And his suds in his soap-box as white as the snow-
How closely the crop of the chin he can mow!
=The barbarous barber at Barrowfield bar.

Though a barbarous barber Sir Benjamin be,
Yet, like his neighbour shaver, no Savage is he,
=The barbarous barber at Barrowfield bar:
For all his barbarities tend but to smooth
The wrinkles of age down to dimples of youth,
While the blood of his victims he studiously spares,
And only cuts off stiff rebellious hairs-
=The barbarous barber of Barrowfield bar.

This barbarous barber's a wonderful wight,
For his breadth is exactly the length of his height!-
=The barbarous barber of Barrowfield bar;
And his broad bluffy face is so pregnant with glee,
And his wild wit comes flashing so fearless and free,
That to see and to hear him, I'm certain would make
A whole congregation of Quakers' sides ache-
=The barbarous barber at Barrowfield bar.

'Tis said, too, that he can disguise so the truth,
As to give to old age the resemblance of youth-
=The barbarous barber at Barrowfield bar;
Can make the dark countenance lively and fair,
And give the bald pate an exub'rance of hair;
Nay, more - by the help of his combs and his curls,
Can transform mouldy maids into gay giddy girls-
=The barbarous barber at Barrowfield bar.

Long may this sharp shaver successfully shave
The chin of the just man - the cheek of the knave-
=The barbarous barber of Barrowfield bar;
But while light sweeps his hand o'er the honest man's chin,
Ne'er causing wry faces, nor scratching the skin,
May the cheek of the villain severely be stung
By the rough rugged razor, or keen cutting tongue,
=Of the barbarous barber at Barrowfield bar.





I HAD A HAT, I HAD NAE MAIR.

AIR - "_I had a horse, I had nae mair._"

I HAD a hat, I had nae mair,
=I gat it frae the hatter;
My hat was smash'd, my skull laid bare,
=Ae night when on the batter;
And sae I thocht me on a plan,
=Whereby to mend the matter-
Just turn at ance a sober man,
=And tak' to drinking water.

My plan I quickly put in force,
=Yea, stuck till't most sincerely,
And now I drive my gig and horse,
=And hae an income yearly.
But, had I still kept boozing on,
='Twa'd been anither matter,
My credit, cash, and claes had gone,
=In tatter after tatter.

My wife, perhaps, a worthless pest,
=My weans half-starved and duddy;
And I, mysel', at very best,
=Gaun wi' an auld coal cuddie;
Wi' scarce a stick in a' the house,
=Or spoon, or bowl, or platter,
Or milk, or meal, to feed a mouse,
=Or blanket save a tatter.

Now, Gude be praised, I've peace o' mind,
=Clear head and health o' body,
A thrifty wifie, cosh and kind,
=And bairnies plump and ruddy.
Hence, I'd advise ilk weirdless wight,
=Wha likes the gill-stoup's clatter,
To try my plan this very night,
=And tak' to drinking water.





O JEANIE, WHY THAT LOOK SAE CAULD?

"O JEANIE! why that look sae cauld
=And withering to me now?
And wherefore scowls that cloud o' gloom
=Upon thy bonnie brow?
What hae I said, what hae I done,
=To draw sic looks I rae thee?
Is this thy love - thy fond regard,
=Sae lately pledged to me?"

"O Jamie! spier na that at me,
=But guess the cause yoursel',
Ye thocht, yestreen, ye werena seen
=Alang wi' bonnie Bell?
Your arm enclaspit round her waist,
=Your cheek to her's was laid,
And mony a melting kiss she gat
=While row'd within your plaid."

"O lassie dear! why vex yoursel'
=Wi' jealous thochts and mean,
For I was twenty miles and mair
=Awa' frae hame yestreen?
I gaed to see my sister dear-
=A gift she sent to thee;
And see-thou maun this necklace wear
=That day thou'rt wed to me."

"And are you then still true to me?
=I'll ne'er forgi'e mysel';
O what could tempt me to believe
=You'd quit your Jean for Bell?
But there's my hand-I'll never mair
=Dream foolish thochts o' thee,
But love wi' a' a woman's love,
=Till light forsake mine e'e."





BAITH SIDES O' THE PICTURE.

AIR - "_Willie was a Wanton Wag._"

GIN ye hae pence, ye will hae sense,
=Gin ye hae nought, ye will hae nane,
When I had cash, I was thought gash,
=And my advice by a' was ta'en;
The rich and poor then thrang'd my door,
=The very dog cam' for his bane,
My purse, my ha', were free to a',
=And I was roosed by ilka ane.

Guid freends, and true, I had enow,
=Wha to oblige me aye were fain,
Gin I but said, "I want your aid,"
=I didna need to say't again.
Whene'er I spak', and tauld my crack,
=Loud plaudits I was sure to gain;
For ilka word, howe'er absurd,
=Was for undoubted wisdom ta'en.

At catch or glee, I bore the gree,
=For music's powers were a' my ain;
And when I sang, the hale house rang
=Wi' rapturous encores again.
At pun or jest I shone the best,
=For nane had sic a fertile brain;
My jibes and jokes, my satire strokes,
=Were-like my wine-a' kindly ta'en.

But when I brak', and gaed to wrack,
=Ilk gowden prospect fairly gane,
My judgment wi' my wealth did flee,
=And a' my sense was frae me ta'en:
Nor rich, nor poor, cam' near my door,
=My freends a' vanished ane by ane;
Nor word, nor crack, was worth a plack,
=For I was listened to by nane.

My jests and wit, they wadna hit,
=My singing met wi' cauld disdain,
The distant look or dry rebuke,
=Was a' that e'er I could obtain.
But, thanks to Gude, I've fortitude,
=Adversity's sour cup to drain,
And ae true freen', as e'er was seen,
=And that's the Dog that shares my bane.





IT'S NO THAT THOU'RT BONNIE.

IT'S no that thou'rt bonnie, it's no that thou'rt braw,
It's no that thy skin has the pureness o' snaw,
It's no that thy form is perfection itsel',
That mak's my heart feel what my tongue canna tell;
But oh! it's the soul beaming out frae thine e'e,
That mak's thee sae dear and sae lovely to me.

It's pleasant to look on that mild blushing face,
Sae sweetly adorn'd wi' ilk feminine grace,
It's joyous to gaze on these tresses sae bright,
O'ershading a forehead sae smooth and sae white;
But to dwell on the glances that dart frae thine e'e,
O Jeanie! it's evendown rapture to me.

That form may be wasted by lingering decay,
The bloom of that cheek may be wither'd away,
Those gay gowden ringlets that yield sic delight,
By the cauld breath o' time may be changed into white;
But the soul's fervid flashes that brighten thine e'e,
Are the offspring o' heaven, and never can dee.

Let me plough the rough ocean, nor e'er touch the shore,
Let me freeze on the coast of the bleak Labrador,
Let me pant 'neath the glare of a vertical sun,
Where no trees spread their branches, nor streams ever run;
Even there, my dear Jeanie, still happy I'd be,
If bless'd wi' the light o' thy heavenly e'e.





THE PEASANT'S FIRESIDE.

AIR - "_For lack o' gowd._"

How happy lives the peasant, by his ain fireside,
Wha weel employs the present, by his ain fireside,
Wi' his wifie, blythe and free, and his bairnie on her knee,
Smiling fu' o' sportive glee, by his ain fireside.
Nae cares o' State disturb him, by his ain fireside,
Nae foolish fashions curb him, by his ain fireside,
In his elbow chair reclined, he can freely speak his mind,
To his bosom-mate sae kind, by his ain fireside.

When his bonnie bairns increase, around his ain fireside,
That health, content, and peace, surround his ain fireside,
A' day he gladly toils, and at night delighted smiles,
At their harmless pranks and wiles, around his ain fireside.
And while they grow apace, about his ain fireside,
In beauty, strength, and grace, about his ain fireside,
Wi' virtuous precepts kind, by a sage example join'd,
He informs ilk youthfu' mind about his ain fireside.

When the shivering orphan poor, draws near his ain fireside,
And seeks the friendly door, that guards his ain fireside,
She's welcomed to a seat, bidden warm her little feet,
While she's kindly made to eat, by his ain fireside.
When youthfu' vigour fails him, by his ain fireside,
And hoary age assails him, by his ain fireside,
With joy he back surveys all his scenes of bygone days,
As he trod in wisdom's ways, by his ain fireside.

And when grim death draws near him, by his ain fireside,
What cause has he to fear him, by his ain fireside,
With a bosom-cheering hope, he takes heaven for his prop,
Then calmly down does drop, by his ain fireside.
O may that lot be ours, by our ain fireside,
Then glad will fly the hours, by our ain fireside,
May virtue guard our path, till we draw our latest breath,
Then we'll smile and welcome death, by our ain fireside.





HOUT AWA', JOHNNY, LAD!

HOUT awa', Johnny, lad! what mak's ye flatter me?
Why wi' your praises sae meikle bespatter me?
Why sae incessantly deave and be-clatter me,
=Teasing me mair than a body can bide?
Can I believe, when ye "angel" and "goddess " me,
=That ye're in earnest to mak' me your bride?
Say, can a woman o' sense or yet modesty,
=Listen to talk frae the truth sae far wide?

Few are the flatterer's claims to sincerity,
Loud though he boast o' his honour and verity;
Truth frae his lips is a wonderfu' rarity,
=Words by his actions are sadly belied!
Woman he deems but a toy to be sported wi',
=Dawted or spurned at, as caprice may guide;
Blooming a while to be dallied and courted wi',
=Then to be flung like auld lumber aside!

True love has seldom the gift o' loquacity,
Lips to express it, aft want the capacity;
Wha, then, can trust in a wooer's veracity,
=Whase butter'd words o'er his tongue saftly slide?
What are love's tell-tales, that give it sweet utterance,
=Wherein the maiden may safely confide?
What-but the glances, the sighs and heart-flutterings,
=Of the loved youth who takes truth for his guide?

Yet, though I've spoken wi' seeming severity,
Made observations wi' prudish asperity,
I'd be the last ane to geck, or to sneer at ye,
=Kenning how little is made by fause pride.
Could we but then understand ane anither, then
=Soon wad my bosom the matter decide;
Leaving my worthy auld father and mither, then
=Hey, Johnny, lad! I'd become your ain bride.





COME, BILLIES, LET'S STEER FOR OUR HAMMOCKS.

AIR - "_Rattlin' roarin' Willie._"

COME, billies, let's steer for our hammocks,
=Coisider the nicht's growing late,
Fy rax us our plaids and our crummocks,
=It's tinie we were takin' the gate;
Our dawties at hame will be weary,
=Wi' waiting upon us sae lang,
Then why keep them lanely and eerie
=While we are enjoying our sang?

It's guid to be social and canty,
=It's cheering to coup aff our horn-
But makin' owre free wi' our _aunty_
=Is sure to bring trouble the morn;
For _aunty's_ a dangerous kimmer,
=And no to be dallied wi' aye,
She'll turn to bleak winter our simmer,
=And sprinkle our haffets wi' grey.

Come now, we ha'e a' gotten ready,
=Na, laird, no anither drap mair,
Weel, Johnny, ye're foremost-be steady,
=And mind there's a turn in the stair-
Shoot out your best fit now before ye,
=And cannily catch ilka step,
Ae stagger, my blade, and we're owre ye,
=Syne wha your fat carcase will kep?

Now, since we're a' landed on Terra,
=Let ilk tak' his several road,
Enough we may manage to carry,
=Owre meikle's a troublesome load.
Gude e'en-ilka man to his dearie,
=As fast as he's able to gang-
To meet a wife smiling and cheerie,
=Is ten times mair sweet than a sang.





HERE'S TO YOU AGAIN.

AIR - "_Toddlin' hame._"

LET votaries o' Bacchus o' wine make their boast,
And drink till it mak's them as dead's a bed-post,
A drap o' maut broo I wad far rather pree,
And a rosy-faced landlord's the Bacchus for me.
Then I'll toddle butt, and I'll toddle ben,
And let them drink at wine wha nae better do ken.

Your wine it may do for the bodies far south,
But a Scotsman likes something that bites i' the mouth,
And whisky's the thing that can do't to a Tee,
Then Scotsmen and whisky will ever agree;
For wi' toddlin' butt, an' wi' toddlin' ben,
Sae lang we've been nurst on't we hardly can spean.

It's now thretty years since I first took the drap,
To moisten my carcase, and keep it in sap,
An' tho' what I've drunk might hae slockened the sun,
I fin' I'm as dry as when first I begun;
For wi' toddlin' butt, an' wi' toddlin' ben,
I'm nae sooner slockened than drouthy again.

Your douse folk aft ca' me a tipplin' auld sot,
A worm to a still, - a sand bed, - and what not;
They cry that my hand wad ne'er bide frae my mouth,
But, oddsake! they never consider my drouth;
Yet I'll toddle butt, an' I'll toddle ben,
An' laugh at their nonsense - wha nae better ken.

Some hard grippin' mortals wha deem themsel's wise
A glass o' good whisky affect to despise,
Poor scurvy-souled wretches - they're no very blate,
Besides, let me tell them, they're foes to the State;
For wi' toddlin' butt, an' wi' toddlin' ben,
Gin folk wadna drink, how could Government fen'?

Yet wae on the tax that mak's whisky sae dear,
An' wae on the gauger sae strict and severe;
Had I but my will o't, I'd soon let you see,
That whisky, like water, to a' should be free;
For I'd toddle butt, an' I'd toddle ben,
An' I'd mak' it to rin like the burn after rain.

What signifies New'rday? - a mock at the best,
That tempts but poor bodies, and leaves them unblest,
For a ance-a-year fuddle I'd scarce gie a strae,
Unless that ilk year were as short as a day;
Then I'd toddle butt, an' I'd toddle ben,
Wi' the hearty het pint, an' the canty black hen.

I ne'er was inclined to lay by ony cash,
Weel kennin' it only wad breed me mair fash;
But aye when I had it, I let it gang free,
An' wad toss for a gill wi' my hindmost bawbee
For wi' toddlin' butt, an' wi' toddlin' ben,
I ne'er kent the use o't, but only to spen'.

Had siller been made in the kist to lock by,
It ne'er wad been round, but as square as a die;
Whereas, by its shape, ilka body may see,
It aye was designed it should circulate free;
Then we'll toddle butt, an' we'll toddle ben,
An' aye whan we get it, we'll part wi't again.

I ance was persuaded to "put in the pin,"
But foul fa' the bit o't ava wad bide in,
For whisky's a thing so bewitchingly stout,
The first time I smelt it, the pin it lap out;
Then I toddled butt, an' I toddled ben,
And I vowed I wad ne'er be advised sae again.

O leeze me on whisky! it gies us new life,
It mak's us aye cadgy to cuddle the wife;
It kindles a spark in the breast o' the cauld,
And it mak's the rank coward courageously bauld;
Then we'll toddle butt, an' we'll toddle ben,
An' we'll coup aff our glasses, - "Here's to you again!"





THE INDIAN COTTAGER'S SONG.

Founded upon St Pierre's tale of "The Indian Cottage," and adapted to an Hindostan air.  Arranged and harmonised by R. A. Smith.

THO' exiled afar from the gay scenes of Delhi,
=Although my proud kindred no more shall I see,
I've found a sweet home in this thick-wooded valley,
=Beneath the cool shades of the green banyan tree;
'Tis here my loved Paria and I dwell together,
Though shunned by the world, truly blest in each other,
And thou, lovely boy! lisping "father" and "mother,"
=Art more than the world to my Paria and me.

How dark seemed my fate, when we first met each other,
=My own fatal pile ready waiting for me;
While incense I burned on the grave of my mother,
=And knew that myself the next victim would be;
'Twas then that my Paria, as one sent from heaven,
To whom a commission of mercy is givn,
Shed peace through this bosom, with deep anguish riven,
=To new life, to love, and to joy waking me.

He wooed me with flowers, to express the affection
=Which sympathy woke in his bosom for me;
My poor bleeding heart clung to him for protection;
=I wept - while I vowed with my Paria to flee.
My mind, too, from darkness and ignorance freeing,
He taught to repose on that merciful Being,
The Author of Nature, all-wise and all-seeing,
=Whose arm still protecteth my Paria and me.

Now safely we dwell in this cot of our rearing,
=Contented, industrious, cheerful, and free;
To each other still more endeared and endearing,
=While Heaven sheds its smiles on my Paria and me.
Our garden supplies us with fruits and with flowers,
The sun marks our time, and our birds sing the hours,
And thou, darling boy! shooting forth thy young powers,
=Completest the bliss of my Paria and me.





JUNE AND JANUARY.

AIR - "_Willie was a Wanton Wag._"

FROSTY-BEARDED warlock body,
=Wife to you I'll never be;
Rather wad I wed the wuddie,
=Or a runkled maiden dee;
Gang your wa's, an' seek some ither-
=Ane that's weary o' her life,
For ye're liker Death's half-brither,
=Than a man that wants a wife.

What care I for a' your grandeur,
=Gear an' lands, and houses braw?
Sapless rung! the witch o' Endor
=Scarce wad taen you wi' them a'!
Troth, ye might hae hain'd your siller
=That ye've spent on fripperies vain;
Dotard fool! to think a tailor
=E'er could mak' you young again!

When you gat your dandy stays on,
=Was't to mak' you trig an' sma';
Or for fear that ye might gyzen,
=And in staves asunder fa'?
Ye wad tak' me to your bosom,
=Buy me braws an' ilk thing nice!
Gude preserve's!  I'd soon be frozen,
=Clasp'd by sic a sherd o' ice!

Hoot! haud aff-ye're quite ridic'lous
=Wi' your pow as white as snaw,
An' your drumstick-shanks sae feckless,
=Aping youth o' twenty-twa;
Wha could thole your senseless boasting,
=Squeaking voice, an' ghaistlike grin?
Doited driveller! cease your hoasting,
=Else gie ower your fulsome din.

Wha could sit an' hear a story
='Bout a bosom's burning pains,
Frae an auld "_Memento mori_,"
=Sand-glass, skull, an' twa cross banes ?
But for fear my scorn should cool ye,
=Hark! I'll tell you what I'll do,
When December's wed to July,
=There's my _fit_, I'll then tak' you.





THE PEERLESS ROSE OF KENT.

WHEN beauty, youth, and innocence,
=In one fair form are blent,
And that fair form our vestal Queen,
=The peerless ROSE of KENT,
Say, where's the Briton's heart so cold-
=The Briton's soul so dead,
As not to pour out ardent prayer
=For blessings on her head?

This is the day,-the joyous day,-
=That sees our lady crown'd,
Hence, may not one disloyal heart,
=In Albion's Isles be found;
But may she find in every breast
=An undisputed throne,
And o'er a gallant people reign,
=Whose hearts are all her own.

For ne'er did woman's hand more fair
=The regal sceptre hold,
And ne'er did brow more spotless wear
=The coronal of gold;
And ne'er beneath the purple robe
=Did purer bosom beat;
So ne'er may truer lieges kneel
=A lovelier Queen to greet.

May every blessing from above,
=On Kent's fair Rose descend,
While wisdom, dignity, and grace,
=On all her steps attend.
Still may she wear fair Virtue's bloom,
=Throughout a happy reign,
And long be hail'd the "Queen of Isles"-
=Fair Mistress of the Main!





THE ROYAL UNION.

THERE'S joy in the Lowlands and Highlands,
There's joy in the hut and the ha';
The pride o' auld Britain's fair islands,
Is woo'd and wedded an' a':
She's got the dear lad o' her choosing-
A lad that's baith gallant and braw;
And lang may the knot be a-loosing
That firmly has buckled the twa.

=Woo'd an' wedded an' a',
=Buckled an' bedded an' a',
=The loveliest lassie in Britain
=Is woo'd an' wedded an' a'.

May heaven's all-bountiful Giver
Shower down his best gifts on the twa;
May love round their couch ever hover,
Their hearts close and closer to draw.
May never misfortune o'ertake them,
Nor blast o' adversity blaw;
But every new morning awake them
To pleasures unsullied as snaw.

=Woo'd an' wedded an' a', etc.

Then here's to our Queen an' her Marrow,
May happiness aye be their fa',
May discord and sickness and sorrow
Be banished for ever their ha'.
So, fy let us coup all our bicker,
And toast meikle joy to the twa,
And may they, till life's latest flicker,
Together in harmony draw.

=Woo'd and wedded an' a', etc.





THE QUEEN'S ANTHEM.

GOD bless our lovely Queen,
With cloudless days serene;-
=God save our Queen.
From perils, pangs and woes,
Secret and open foes,
Till her last evening close,
=God save our Queen.

From flattery's poisoned streams;-
From faction's fiendish schemes,
=God shield our Queen;-
With men her throne surround,
Firm, active, zealous, sound,
Just, righteous, sage, profound;-
=God save our Queen.

Long may she live to prove
Her faithful subject's love;-
=God bless our Queen.
Grant her an Alfred's zeal,
Still for the Commonweal,
Her people's wounds to heal;-
=God save our Queen.

Watch o'er her steps in youth:-
In the straight paths of truth
=Lead our young Queen;
And as years onward glide,
Succour, protect and guide
Albion's hope-Albion's pride;-
=God save our Queen.

Free from war's sanguine stain,
Bright be Victoria's reign;-
=God guard our Queen.
Safe from the traitor's wiles,
Long may the Queen of Isles
Cheer millions with her smiles;-
=God save our Queen.





O PETER M'KAY.

=_Ane sober advice to ane drucken Soutar in Perth._
==AIR - "_Come under my Plaidie._"

O PETER M'KAY!  O Peter M'Kay!
Gin ye'd do like the brutes, only drink when ye're dry,
Ye might gather cash yet, grow gawcy and gash yet,
And carry your noddle Perth-Provost-pow-high;
But poor drucken deevil, ye're wed to the evil
Sae closely, that naething can sever the tie;
Wi' boring, and boosing, and snoring, and snoozing,
Ye emulate him that inhabits-the stye.

O Peter M'Kay!  O Peter M'Kay!
I'm tauld that ye drink ilka browster wife dry;-
When down ye get sitting, ye ne'er think o' flitting,
While cogie or caup can a dribble supply;-
That, waur than a jaw-box, your monstrous maw soaks
Whate'er is poured in till't, while "give" is the cry;
And when a' is drunk up, ye bundle your trunk up,
And bid, like the sloth, the bare timmer good-bye.

O Peter M'Kay!  O Peter M'Kay!
Gang hame to your awls, and your lingels apply,
Ca' in self-respect, man, to keep you correct, man-
The task may be irksome - at ony rate try;
But gin ye keep drinking, and dozing, and blinking,
Be-clouding your reason, God's light from on high,
Then Peter, depend on't, ye'll soon make an end on't,
And close your career 'neath a cauld wint'ry sky.





O MEET ME, LOVE, BY MOONLIGHT.

AIR - "_This is no mine ain hoose._"

O MEET me, love, by moonlight,
By moonlight, by moonlight,
And down the glen by moonlight,
How fondly will I welcome thee!

And there, within our beechen bower,
Far from ambition's giddy tower,
O what a heart-enthrilling hour,
=My Mary dear, I'll spend with thee!
==Then meet me, love, etc.

Reclining on our mossy seat,
The rivulet rippling at our feet,
Enrapt in mutual transport sweet,
=O who on earth so blest as we?
==Then meet me, love, etc.

Our hopes and loves each sigh will speak,
With lip to lip or cheek to cheek,
O who more heartfelt joys would seek,
=Than such, at eve, alone with thee?
==Then meet me, love, etc.

To clasp thy lovely yielding waist;
To press thy lips so pure and chaste;
An' be in turn by thee embraced,
=O that were bliss supreme to me!
==Then meet me, love, etc.

Not worldling's wealth, nor lordling's show,
Such solid joys can e'er bestow,
As those which faithful lovers know
=When heart to heart beats fervently.
==Then meet me, love, etc.





I ANCE WAS IN LOVE.

I ANCE was in love-maybe no lang ago-
=And I lo'ed ae sweet lassie most dearly;
I sought her wee hand, but her daddy growled "no!"
=Which stung my young heart most severely.
For he, wealthy wight, was an auld crabbit carl,
Wha held fast the grip he had got o' the warl';
So the poor plackless laddie got nought but a snarl
==For lo'eing the lassie sincerely.

But love wadna hide, and the lassie lo'ed me,
=And oh! her black een tauld it clearly,
That she'd tak' and wed me without a bawbee,
=Although she had twa hundred yearly.
So ae winter night, when her dad was asleep,
And the wind made the doors a' to rattle and cheep,
Frae out the back window she made a bit leap,
==And my arms kepp't the prize I lo'ed dearly.

Auld GRIPSICCAR wasna to haud nor to bin',
=He tint a' his wee judgment nearly;
He stormed, he rampaged, he ran out, he ran in,
=And he vowed we should smart for it dearly;
But time wrought a change when he saw his first _oe_,
Nae langer was heard then the growl and the "no!"
Our house now is Gripsiccar, Goodson & Co.,
==While our labours are prospering yearly.





COME TO THE BANKS OF CLYDE.

AIR - "_March to the battlefield._"

COME to the Banks of Clyde,
=Where health and joy invite us;
Spring, now, in virgin pride,
=There waiteth to delight us:
=Enrobed in green, she smiles serene-
==Each eye enraptured views her;
=A brighter dye o'erspreads her sky,
==And every creature woos her.
Come to the Banks of Clyde,
=Where health and joy invite us;
Spring, now, in virgin pride,
=There waiteth to delight us.

Mark! how the verdant lea,
=With daisies she is strewing;
Hark! now, on every tree,
=The birds their mates are wooing:
=Love wakes the notes that swell their throats,
==Love makes their plumage brighter;
=Old Father Clyde, in all his pride,
==Ne'er witness'd bosoms lighter;
Mark! how the verdant lea,
=With daisies she is strewing;
Hark! how, on every tree,
=The birds their mates are wooing.





ROLL, FAIR CLUTHA.

AIR - "_Rule Britannia._"

WHEN Nature first, with mighty hand,
=Traced Clyde's fair windings to the main,
'Twas then the Genii of the land,
=Assembled round, and sung this strain:

==Roll, fair Clutha, fair Clutha to the sea,
==And be thy banks for ever free.

For on thy banks in future times,
=A brave and virtuous race shall rise,
Strangers to those unmanly crimes,
=That taint the tribes of warmer skies.

==Roll, etc.

And stately towns and cities fair,
=Thy lovely shores shall decorate;
With seats of science, to prepare
=Thy sons for all that's good and great.

==Roll, etc.

And on thy pure translucent breast,
=Shall numerous fleets majestic ride;
Destined to south, north, east, and west,
=To waft thy treasures far and wide.

==Roll, etc.

And up thy gently sloping sides,
=Shall woods o'er woods in grandeur tower;
Meet haunts for lovers and their brides,
=To woo in many a sylvan bower.

==Roll, etc.

And early on each summer morn,
=Thy youth shall bathe their limbs in thee;
Thence to their various toils return
=With increased vigour, health, and glee.

==Roll, etc.

And still on summer evenings fair,
=Shall groups of happy pairs be seen,
With hearts as light as birds of air,
=A-straying o'er thy margin green.

==Roll, etc.

And oft the Bard by thee will stray,
=When Luna's lamp illumes the sky,
Musing on some heart-melting lay,
=Which fond hope tells him ne'er shall die.

==Roll, fair Clutha, fair Clutha to the sea,
==And be thy banks for ever free.





COME, FILL A BUMPER.

AIR - "_Cam' ye by Athol._"

COME, fill a bumper, dear friends and good neighbours now,
Drink to the _right_ we hae struggled for sairly;-
We shall enjoy the reward of our labours now:
Clyde's bonny banks are made free to us fairly.
Pledge me then, honest men, itow since we've got our ain,
Dearly let's prize what we've purchased so dearly;
Now may we tread with glee Clyde's lovely margin free,
High as the dyke was - 'tis tumbled right rarely.

Late, the abode of seclusion and dreariness,
Still as the vale of death's shadow-or nearly,
Clyde's bonny banks are a' life, now, and cheeriness,
Throng'd with each class that loves liberty dearly;
Age, with his silver hairs, youth, too, in loving pairs,
Gladly pursuing their course, late and early,
Childhood that scarce can run, boyhood, with noisy fun;
Joyous that matters are now settled squarely.

Here's to the brave honest hearts of our Committee!
Lang hae they battled and striven for't sairly;
Wha now dare challenge, or yet cast a gloom at ye,
While on your banks ye can go late or early?
Come, then, our Committee, "_nine times nine_," let it be,
They in the front stood, and fought it out rarely;
Wha wad hae done like them, tyranny's tide to stem?
Then let us honour them-ever sincerely.





O COME WI' ME.

O COME wi' me, O come wi' me
=O come wi' me, my Mary,
And I'll mak' thee the brawest bride
=In bonny Inverary.

A silken gown o' purple hue,
A bonnet o' the azure blue,
And best o' a', a heart that's true,
=I'll gie to thee, my Mary.
Then come wi' me, O come wi' me,
=Then come wi' me, my Mary,
And shine, the loveliest o' the fair,
=In bonny Inverary.

Nae mair thou'll need to tend the sheep
Upon the mountains side sae steep,
But in these faithfu' arms thou'lt sleep,
=And dream o' love, my Mary.
Now come wi' me, O come wi' me,
=Now come wi' me, my Mary,
And thou shalt be the happiest wife
=In bonny Inverary.

How mony lads will tell a tale,
That o'er soft woman may prevail,
And leave her lorn at last, to wail
=Their want o' faith, my Mary,
But come wi' me, O come wi' me,
=But come wi' me, my Mary,
An' prove the warmest, truest love
=In bonny Inverary.

The great Argyll, wi' a' his land,
His lineage, rank, and titles grand,
Mair wealth than we can ne'er command,
=The wealth o' love, my Mary.
Then come wi' me, O come wi' me,
=Then come wi' me, my Mary,
And live a life o' love and bliss
=In bonny Inverary.

HONEST MEN AND BONNIE LASSES.

AIR - "_Roy's Wife._"

==HONEST men and bonnie lasses,
==Honest men and bonnie lasses,
==Creation's pride, through Nature wide,
==Are honest men and bonnie lasses,

Amid life's dreary wastes o' care,
=The cheerless gloom wad quite depress us,
Did not such flow'rets blossom there
=As honest men and bonnie lasses:
==Honest men and bonnie lasses,
==Honest men and bonnie lasses,
==The balm o' grief, the life o' life,
==Are honest men and bonnie lasses.

The Midas-hearted wretch may starve,
=While he his yellow heaps amasses,
Be mine the joys that thrill each nerve,
='Mang honest men and bonnie lasses:
==Honest men and bonnie lasses,
==Honest men and bonnie lasses,
==What joys below poor mortals owe
==To honest men and bonnie lasses.

An honest man's a gem so rare,
=His price could ne'er be paid by Caesar,
But what's a lovely lassie fair?
=A sparkling mine of richest treasure.
==Honest men and bonnie lasses.
==Honest men and bonnie lasses.
==What wealth on earth can boast the worth
==Of honest men and bonnie lasses?

Now, comrades, would you wish a toast?
=Then haste and seize your sparkling glasses,
I'll gie you Scotia's stay and boast-
=Her honest men and bonnie lasses.
==Honest men and bonnie lasses,
==Honest men and bonnie lasses;
==Her stay and boast, frae coast to coast,
==Her honest men and bonnie lasses.





SINCE FATE HAS DECREED IT.

AIR - "_A' body's like to get married but me._"

SINCE Fate has decreed it-then e'en let her gang,
I'll comfort mysel' wi' a canty bit sang:
Yes; I'll sing like a lintie and laugh at it a',
Though the auld donnart dotard has wiled her awa'.
O wae worth that siller! what mischief it breeds,
Dame Fortune's pet weans, how it pampers and feeds;
It has made them baith ane whom auld Nature meant twa,
And has torn frae my arms, my dear lassie awa'.

The neighbours will clatter about the affair,
But e'en let them talk-that's the least o' my care,
For the sough will blaw by in a fortnight or twa,
But ne'er can restore to me, her that's awa'.
Come cheer up, my heart! - yet, what need'st thou be wae,
There are thousands behint he; sae e'en let her gae;
Yes; thousands, as bonnie, as good, and as braw-
Then why should'st thou grieve for her, now she's awa'?

But ah! hapless lassie, my heart's wae for thee,
To think what a comfortless life thou maun dree;
How cheerless to sit in a rich splendid ha'
'Midst desolate grandeur, when love is awa'.
And thou, her auld mither, ah what wilt thou say,
When thou seest thy poor lassie, heart-broken and wae;
Ah what will avail then, her deeding sae braw,
When it covers a bosom that's riven in twa.





'TWAS MORN.

AIR - "_Within a mile of Edinburgh Town._"

'TWAS morn-and the lambs on the green hillocks played,
=The laverock sang sweetly on high,
The dew-chaps bespangled ilk green spiky blade,
=And the woods rang wi' music and joy;
==When young Patie down the vale
==Met fair Kitty wi' her pail,
==He clasp'd her hand and blythely speired,
==="Dear lassie, where to now?"
=="A wee bit down the glen," quo' she,
==="To milk our bruckit cow."

"O Kitty! I've lo'ed you this towmond an' mair,
=And wha lo'es na you canna see,
There's nane on our plains half sae lovely and fair,
=No; - nane half sae lovely to me:
==Will you come, dear lass, at e'en,
==Up the burnie's bank sae green?
==And there beneath the beechen shade,
===You'll meet a lover true."
=="Na, na," she cried, "I canna come
===At e'en to meet wi' you."

"My mither will flyte and my father will ban,
=Gin here meikle langer I stay,
Come cease wi' your wheezin', and let gae my han',
=It's daft like at this time o' day."
=="Dearest lassie, ere ye gang,
==Tell me shall we meet ere lang?
==Come, say't an' seal't wi' ae sweet smack
===O' that enticing mou';"
=="Haud aff," she cried, "nor think that I
===Was made for sport to you."

"Then, fareweel, proud lassie, for since ye're sae shy,
=Nae langer I'll press you to bide;
E'en show aff your airs, toss your head and look high,
=Your beauty demands a' your pride;
==I may find some ither where,
==Ane mair kind, although less fair."
==He turned to gang-she laughing cried,
==="Stop, lad, I've ta'en the rue,
==Come back and set the tryst wi' me,
===And I will meet wi you."





PITY ME!  WHAT I DREE.

_Written for a St. Kilda air, or "Haud awa' frae me, Donald."_

=PITY me! what I dree!
==This poor aching heart is breaking,
=Here I lie, moan and sigh,
==Lanely and forsaken.

Lately I was blythe and cheery,
=As the merry maukin;
Now I'm dowie, dull, and dreary,
=Baith asleep and waukin'.
==Pity me! etc.

On the primrose bank nae mair
=I'll flowery chaplets weave me,
Nor deck wi' silken snood my hair,
=For ane wha'd sae deceive me.
==Pity me! etc.

A' my thochts are thochts o' sorrow,
=A' my dreams are sadness;
Not a hope to light the morrow
=Wi' a gleam o' gladness.
==Pity me! etc.

O that I had never met him-
=Never loved sae fondly,
O! that I could now forget him
=Whom I lived for only.
==Pity me! etc.

A' my joys are fled for ever,
=A' my peace is broken;
Bear, O bear to my fause lover
=This unhonoured token.
==Pity me! etc.

Tell him o' a tender blossom,
=Trampled down and faded,
Tell him o' a stainless bosom,
=Now, alas! degraded.
==Pity me! etc.

Yet amid this wreck and ruin-
=Not a starlet gleamin',
She he wrong'd for peace is suing
=To her faithless leman.

=Pity me! what I dree!
==This poor aching heart is breaking,
=Here I lie, moan and sigh,
==Lanely and forsaken.





AS AE DOOR STEEKS ANITHER CLOSES.
=OR THE PROVERB REVERSED.

METHINKS some auld Scotch proverb says
="As ae door steeks anither opens;"
Though this may sometimes be the case,
=Its sad reverse much oftener happens.
Let's therefore try the thing anew,
=(Though it should be as old as Moses,)
And prove this axiom just and true,
="As ae door steeks anither closes."

The man whose trade moves to his mind,
=Is always sure of friends to help him,
And ne'er is at a loss to find
=An open door-a hearty welcome;
But he whose fortune's on the wane,
=Who tries-and tries-and tries, but loses,
Soon finds just reason to complain,
="As ae door steeks anither closes."

The haughty minister of state,
=Who proudly basks in royal sunshine,
While numbers daily on him wait,
=To catch a glimpse of borrowed _moonshine_;
Poor man! for all his pomp and power,
=He sleeps not on a bed of roses,
For should his lord but shut the door,
=Then every door against him closes.

The artizan whose dauntless mind
=Revolts against his proud oppressor,
Turned off-can no employment find,
=For being such a bold transgressor;
His suit is met in every place
=With jibes and jeers, and turned-up noses;
Thus feels he this sad truth, alas!
="As a'e door steeks anither closes."

The spendthrift wild, who wastes his wealth
=In rioting and dissipation,
Ne'er dreams, poor fool! of injured health,
=Pale want, or blasted reputation.
Disease and poverty come on,
=His credit everywhere he loses,
Even self-respect at last is gone,
=Door after door against him closes.

The poor neglected virtuous man,
=Who long the storms of life has braved,
Sinks down, at last, exhausted-wan-
=Of every earthly stay bereaved;
Yet still has he one prop that's sure,
=On which his harrassed soul reposes,
Though spurned from every earthly door,
=The door of Heaven never closes.





COME THEN, ELIZA DEAR.

DEAREST Eliza, say, wilt thou resign
All thy companions gay, and become mine?
=Wilt thou through woe and weal,
=Be my loved partner still,
=Share with me every ill,
==Nor e'er repine?

Wilt thou, O lovely fair! when I'm distress'd,
All my afflictions share, soothe them to rest?
=Wilt thou, when comforts fail,
=When woe and want assail,
=With sympathizing wail,
==Cling to this breast?

Yes, yes, O dearest youth here I resign,
All else I prize on earth, thy fate to join;
=Gladly I'll share thy woes,
=Soothe thee to calm repose,
=While heaven on me bestows
==Such love as thine.

Come then, Eliza dear, come to this breast,
Thou alone reignest here, kindest and best;
=If wealth and rural peace,
=If love that ne'er shall cease,
=Can give thee ought like bliss,
==Thou shalt be bless'd.





I'LL AWA' HAME TO MY MITHER, I WILL.

ANE TAWPIE BALLAD, COMPOSIT BE MISS TIBBIE TOSHMYTAP, HEIRESS O' THAT ILK, IN THE PARISH O' DRUMLIESYKE.

AIR - "_Laird o' Cockpen._"

O! I'LL awa' hame to my mither, I will,
An' I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will;
Gin I tarry wi' you I may meet wi' some ill,
Then I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will.

It's wearin' to gloamin', an' soon will be late,
An' the thing might befa' me that happen'd to Kate,
When she gaed to the tryste wi' Will Watt o' the mill;
Sae I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will.
=Sae I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will,
=Sae I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will;
A mither's fireside is the safest place still;
Then I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will.

My mither aft gies me a mither's advice,
About modesty, virtue, an' ilka thing nice;
An' warns me to shun ilk appearance o' ill;
Then I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will.
=O! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will,
=Aye! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will;
She says, as I brew, I maun e'en drink sic yill;
Weel - I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will.

She bids me beware o' the ways o' young men,
As the hauf o' their tricks silly maids dinna ken,
I'or they 'lure to betray-as the spider to kill
Hech! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will:
=O! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will,
=Yes! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will;
I'm young yet, an' simple, an' hae little skill;
SaE I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will.

In this lanely place, I've my fears an' my doubts,
For nane but oursel's can I see hereabouts,
An' the ill-deedy deil in your head may put ill-
Faigs! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will.
=Yes, I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will,
=Troth, I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will:
What! here wi' a man at the back o' a hill?
Na! - I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will.

I'm tauld that the godly King Solomon said,
That he kenn'd na the ways o' a man wi' a maid.
Strange ways! - that could baffle a man o' sic skill;
Saff's I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will.
=Hout! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will,
=Na - I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will:
Sma' ferlie that lasses their wits aften spill;
Come! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will.

Ye flatter and fraise me, an' leuk unco fain,
Pretending ye wish my affection to gain;
But I fear your ain ends ye jist want to fulfil;
Losh! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will:
='Deed! I'll awa' home wi' my mither, I will,
=Sure! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will:
Some tongues try the tricks o' the auld serpent still;
Och! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will.

Ye've heard o' my tocher in gear an' good brass,
An' ye ken that ilk pound gies a charm to a lass;
But if pounds be my beauties, your love's unco chill;
Lad! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will.
=Troth! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will,
=Yes! I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will:
For I'll ne'er let it gang by the scart o' a quill,
But I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will.

But gin I were sure that ye liket mysel',
Where a blister might light it were easy to tell,
Sae, I'll meet you neist Friday, at Mungo's maut kill;
Now, I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will.
=Yes, I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will,
=Now, I'll awa' hame to my mither, I will:
Be discreet, be sincere, an' ye're welcome back still,
An' I'll yet be your ain a'thegither, I will.





JESSY M'LEAN.

OH hark! an' I'll tell you o' Jessy M'Lean,
She promis'd shortsyne she would soon be my ain,
So mind ye'll be ready to come on neist Friday,
An' see me get buckled to Jessy M'Lean.
Lang, lang ha'e I lo'ed her, and faithfully woo'd her,
Yet ne'er has she treated my suit wi' disdain,
For sense an' good nature enliven ilk feature,
Aud guileless the heart is o' Jessy M'Lean.

Tho' nane o' your butterflee beauties sae vain,
That flutter about aye, new lovers to gain;
Yet she has attractions to catch the affections,
And prudence, the heart that she wins, to retain.
Her mild look so touching, her smile so bewitching,
Her rich melting tones sweet as seraphim's strain,
Rush through my heart thrilling, and wake every feeling
Of tender attachment for Jessy M'Lean.

When sitting beside her, my heart is aye fain
To think what a treasure will soon be my ain;
Nae fause gaudy glitter, to cheat, then embitter
But pure solid worth, without hollow or stain.
And should a bit callan', e'er bless our snug dwallin',
Or ae bonnie lassie, (as heaven may ordain).
The sweet smiling creature, its mither ilk feature,
Will knit me still closer to Jessy M'Lean.





THE HAPPY MEETING.

AIR - "_Guardian angels._"

HAVE you hail'd the glowing morning,
=When the sun first gilds the plain?
Or the genial spring returning,
=After winter's dreary reign?
=Then conceive, to me how dear
=When my Anna - faithful, fair,
=After years of lonely pain,
Bless'd my fond eyes - my arms again.

Every charm more finely heighten'd,
=Fix'd my raptured, wondering eyes!
Every grace divinely brighten'd,
=Held my soul in sweet surprise;
=O! I could have gazed my last,
=On her bosom heaving fast-
=Met her eyes benignly bright,
With ever-growing new delight.

Who'd not bear a separation
=Thus again to fondly meet,
And to find no alteration,
=Save the heart's more ardent beat;
=Thus, the same soft hand to grasp,
=Thus the same fair form to clasp,
=Thus the same warm lips to kiss-
O, say, can Heaven give more than this?





MAGNIFICENT TOM.

THERE are "rum chaps" in London, and "droll billies" here;
Pollokshaws is proverbial for "folks unco queer;"
But of all the "odd fellows" abroad or at home,
There none of them equals Magnificent Tom;
For Tom, like a comet, eccentric and strange,
'Mongst the dull orbs of earth takes so devious a range,
That there is not his match underneath heaven's dome,
So erratic and rare is Magnificent Tom.

Magnificent Tom, when the bee's in his head,
Will sing, tell queer stories, or "tip off his bead;"
Preach, "tumble the wulcat," enquire where you're from,
Shake hands and swear friendship - Magnificent Tom.
Or, changing the scene, he'll the actor assume,
Play the part of a hero-the part of a groom,
From the "Bailie" he'll jump to old Cato of Rome,
Keep you laughing or crying-Magnificent Tom.

Magnificent Tom has a temper so warm
That, but touch him, his passion works over like barm;
And then, what a volley of sound, froth and foam,
Is discharged from the mouth of Magnificent Tom.
He cares not for friends then-he cares not for foes,
Nor yet for himself when his wrath overflows;
But his words come as fiery as shells from a bomb,
Dealing "doom" to all round him - Magnificent Tom.

Magnificent Tom is so careless of pelf,
That he lets every day just provide for itself;
"Why, the world's but a cookshop, through which, while we roam,
There's a cook feeds us all," quoth Magnificent Tom.
"There's drink for us, too, in this shop to be had,
Then let us, while here, take the good with the bad,
For while bright glasses sparkle, or full tankards foam,
We'll come in for our share," says Magnificent Tom.

Magnificent Tom has his faults, like us all,
Yet he's never rejoiced at a neighbour's downfall:
"Poor fellow, alas! what a height he's come from;
Let us lift him again," cries Magnificent Tom.
Nor yet is he envious nor grieved when he sees
A neighbour's sails