And they declare Terreagle's fair,
For their abode they choose it;
There's no a heart in a' the land,
But's lighter at the news o't.
Tho' stars in skies may disappear,
And angry tempests gather;
The happy hour may soon be near
That brings us pleasant weather:
The weary night o' care and grief
May hae a joyful morrow;
So dawning day has brought relief—
Fareweel our night o' sorrow!
TUNE "THE TAILOR FELL THRO' THE BED, THIMBLES AN' A'."
THE Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a',
The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an a',
The blankets were thin, and the sheets they were sma',
The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a'.
The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill,
The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill;
The weather was cauld, and the lassie lay still,
She thought that a tailor could do her nae ill.
Gie me the groat again, canny young man ;
Gie me the groat again, canny young man ;
The day it is short, and the night it is lang,
The dearest siller that ever I wan!
There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane;
There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane;
There's some that are dowie,' I trow wad be fain
To see the bit tailor come skippin' again.
But he sae trig
Lap o'er the rig,
And dawtingly did cheer me,
When I, what reck,
Did least expec'
To see my lad so near me.
His bonnet he,
A thought ajee,
Cock'd sprush when first he clasp'd me:
And I, I wat,
Wi' fainness grat,
While in his grips he press'd me.
Deil tak' the war!
I, late and air,
Hae wish'd since Jock departed;
But now as glad
I'm wi' my lad,
As short syne broken-hearted.
Fu' aft at e'en
Wi' dancing keen,
When a' were blythe and merry,
I car'd na by,
Sae sad was I
In absence o' my dearie.
But, praise be blest,
My mind's at rest,
I'm happy wi' my Johnny :
At kirk and fair,
I'se ay be there,
And be as canty's ony.
THE CARLE OF KELLYBURN BRAES.
THERE lived a carle on Kellyburn braes,
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme),
And he had a wife was the plague o' his days;
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
Ae day as the carle gaed up the lang glen,
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme),
He met wi' the Devil; says, "How do you fen ?"
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
"I've got a bad wife, sir; that's a' my complaint,
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme),
For, saving your presence, to her ye're a saint;"
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
"It's neither your stot1 nor your staig? I shall crave,
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme)
But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have;"
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
"O welcome, most kindly," the blythe carle said,
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme),
“But if ye can match her, ye're waur nor ye're ca'd;"
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
The Devil has got the auld wife on his back,
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme),
And, like a poor pedler, he's carried his pack;
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
He's carried her hame to his ain hallan-door,
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme),
Syne bade her gae in, for a b- and a w—;
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o' his band, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), Turn out on her guard in the clap of a hand;
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
The carlin gaed thro' them like ony wud3 bear,
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme),
Whae'er she gat hands on came near her nae mair;
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
A reekit wee Devil looks over the wa',
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), "O, help, master, help, or she'll ruin us a';" And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
The Devil he swore by the edge o' his knife,
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme),
He pitied the man that was tied to a wife;
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
The Devil he swore by the kirk and the bell,
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme),
He was not in wedlock, thank heav'n, but in hell;
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
Then Satan has travell'd again wi' his pack,
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), And to her auld husband he's carried her back; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
"I hae been a Devil the feck o' my life,
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), But ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife;" And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
TUNE-" DUNCAN DAVISON."
THERE was a lass, they ca'd her Meg,
And she held o'er the moors to spin;
There was a lad that follow'd her,
They ca'd him Duncan Davison.
The moor was dreigh,' and Meg was skeigh,2
Her favour Duncan could na win;
For wi' the roke she wad him knock,
And ay she shook the temper-pin.
As o'er the moor they lightly foor,
A burn was clear, a glen was green,
Upon the banks they eased their shanks,
And ay she set the wheel between :
But Duncan swore a haly aith,
That Meg should be a bride the morn;
Then Meg took up her spinnin' graith,3
And flung them a' out o'er the burn.
We'll big a house-a wee, wee house,
And we will live like King and Queen,
Sae blythe and merry we will be
When ye set by the wheel at e'en.
A man may drink and no be drunk;
A man may fight and no be slain;
A man may kiss a bonnie lass,
And ay be welcome back again.
TUNE-UP WI' THE PLOUGHMAN."
THE ploughman he's a bonnie lad,
His mind is ever true, jo,
His garters knit below his knee,
His bonnet it is blue, jo.
Then up wi't a', my ploughman lad,
And hey, my merry ploughman;
Of a' the trades that I do ken,
Commend me to the ploughman.
My ploughman he comes hame at e’en,
He's aften wat and weary;
Cast off the wat, put on the dry,
And gae to bed, my Dearie!
Up wi't a', &c.
I will wash my ploughman's hose,
And I will dress his o'erlay ;1
I will mak my ploughman's bed,
And cheer him late and early.
Up wi't a', &c.
I hae been east, I hae been west,
I hae been at Saint Johnston,
The bonniest sight that e'er I saw
Was th' ploughman laddie dancin'.
Up wi't a', &c.
Snaw-white stockins on his legs,
And siller buckles glancin';
A guid blue bannet on his head,
And O, but he was handsome!
Up wi't a', &c.
Commend me to the barn yard,
And the corn-mou, man;
I never gat my coggie fou
Till I met wi' the ploughman.
Up wi't a', &c.
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