Then pride might climb the slippery steep,
Where fame and honours lofty shine;
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,
Or downward seek the Indian mine;
Give me the cot below the pine,
To tend the flocks, or till the soil,
And every day have joys divine
With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.
O, WHAR did ye get that hauver meal bannock?
O silly blind body, O dinna ye see?
I gat it frae a brisk young sodger laddie,
Between Saint Johnston and bonnie Dundee.
O gin I saw the laddie that ga'e me 't!
Aft has he doudled me up on his knee;
May Heaven protect my bonnie Scots laddie,
And send him safe hame to his babie and me!
My blessin's upon thy sweet wee lippie,
My blessin's upon thy bonnie ee bree! Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie, Thou's aye be dearer and dearer to me! But I'll big a bower on yon bonny banks, Where Tay rins wimplin' by sae clear; And I'll cleed thee in the tartan sae fine, And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear.
THE JOYFUL WIDOWER.
I MARRIED with a scolding wife
The fourteenth of November;
She made me weary of my life,
By one unruly member.
Long did I bear the heavy yoke,
And many griefs attended;
But, to my comfort be it spoke,
Now, now her life is ended.
We lived full one-and-twenty years
A man and wife together;
At length from me her course she steered,
And gone I know not whither.
Would I could guess, I do profess
I speak, and do not flatter-
Of all the women in the world,
I never could come at her.
Her body is bestowed well,
A handsome grave does hide her;
But sure her soul is not in hell-
The deil could ne'er abide her.
I rather think she is aloft,
And imitating thunder;
For why-methinks I hear her voice
Tearing the clouds asunder.
THERE WAS A WIFE.
THERE was a wife wonned in Cockpen,
Scroggam;
She brewed guid ale for gentlemen;
Sing auld Cowl, lay you down by me,
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum.
The gudewife's dochter fell in a fever,
Scroggam;
The priest o' the parish fell in anither;
Sing auld Cowl, lay you down by me,
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum.
They laid the twa i' the bed thegither,
That the heat o' the tane might cool the tither; Sing auld Cowl, lay you down by me, Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum.
THERE'S NEWS, LASSES, NEWS.
THERE'S news, lasses, news,
Gude news I have to tell,
There's a boat fu' o' lads
Come to our town to sell.
The wean wants a cradle,
An' the cradle wants a cod,
An' I'll no gang to my bed
Until I get a nod.
Father, quo' she, Mither, quo' she,
Do what you can,
I'll no gang to my bed
Till I get a man.
I hae as gude a craft rig
As made o' yird and stane;
And waly fa' the ley-crap,
For I maun tilled again.
I'M O'ER YOUNG TO MARRY YET.
I AM my mammy's ae bairn,
Wi' unco folk I weary, sir;
And lying in a man's bed,
I'm fleyed wad mak me eerie, sir.
I'm o'er young to marry yet;
I'm o'er young to marry yet;
I'm o'er young-twad be a sin
To tak me frae my mammy yet.
My mammy coft me a new gown,
The kirk maun hae the gracing o't;
Were I to lie wi' you, kind sir,
I'm feared ye 'd spoil the lacing o't.
Hallowmas is come and gane,
The nights are lang in winter, sir;
An' you an' I in ae bed
In trouth I dare na venture, sir.
Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind
Blaws through the leafless timmer, sir;
But if ye come this gate again,
I'll aulder be gin simmer, sir.
DAMON AND SYLVIA.
YON wandering rill that marks the hill,
And glances o'er the brae, sir,
Slides by a bower where mony a flower,
Sheds fragrance on the day, sir.
There Damon lay with Sylvia gay,
To love they thought nae crime, sir;
The wild birds sang, the echoes rang,
While Damon's heart beat time, sir.
THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY.
Bonnie lassie, will ye go,
Will ye go, will ye go;
Bonnie lassie, will ye go
To the birks of Aberfeldy?
Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, And o'er the crystal streamlet plays; Come, let us spend the lightsome days In the birks of Aberfeldy.
While o'er their heads the hazels hing,
The little birdies blithely sing,
Or lightly flit on wanton wing
In the birks of Aberfeldy.
The braes ascend, like lofty wa's,
The foaming stream deep-roaring fa's,
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws,
The birks of Aberfeldy.
The hoary cliffs are crowned wi' flowers,
White o'er the linns the burnie pours,
And rising, weets wi' misty showers
The birks of Aberfeldy.
Let Fortune's gifts at random flee,
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me,
Supremely blest wi' love and thee,
In the birks of Aberfeldy.
MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL.
FAREWELL, ye dungeons dark and strong,
The wretch's destinie!
Macpherson's time will not be long
On yonder gallows-tree.
Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
Sae dauntingly gaed he;
He played a spring, and danced it round,
Below the gallows-tree.
Oh! what is death but parting breath?
On mony a bloody plain
I've dared his face, and in this place
I scorn him yet again!
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