KEN ye aught o’ Captain Grose?—Igo, and ago,
If he’s amang his friends or foes?—Iram, coram, dago.
Is he to Abra’m’s bosom gane?—Igo, and ago,
Or haudin Sarah by the wame?—Iram, coram dago.
Is he south or is he north?—Igo, and ago,
Or drowned in the river Forth?—Iram, coram dago.
Is he slain by Hielan’ bodies?—Igo, and ago,
And eaten like a wether haggis?—Iram, coram, dago.
Where’er he be, the Lord be near him!—Igo, and ago,
As for the deil, he daur na steer him.—Iram, coram, dago.
But please transmit th’ enclosed letter,—Igo, and ago,
Which will oblige your humble debtor.—Iram, coram, dago.
So may ye hae auld stanes in store,—Igo, and ago,
The very stanes that Adam bore.—Iram, coram, dago,
WILLIE WASTLE dwalt on Tweed,
The spot they ca’d it Linkumdoddie;
Willie was a wabster gude,
Could stown a clue wi’ ony body:
He had a wife was dour and din,
O Tinkler Maidgie was her mither;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wad na gie a button for her!
She has an e’e, she has but ane,
The cat has twa the very colour;
Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump,
A clapper tongue wad deave a miller:
A whiskin beard about her mou’,
Her nose and chin they threaten ither;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wadna gie a button for her!
I HAE a wife of my ain,
I’ll partake wi’ naebody;
I’ll take Cuckold frae nane,
I’ll gie Cuckold to naebody.
I hae a penny to spend,
There—thanks to naebody!
I hae naething to lend,
I’ll borrow frae naebody.
I am naebody’s lord,
I’ll be slave to naebody;
I hae a gude braid sword,
I’ll tak dunts frae naebody.
I’ll be merry and free,
I’ll be sad for naebody;
Naebody cares for me,
I care for naebody.
Summer fading, winter comes--
Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs,
Window robins, winter rooks,
And the picture story-books.
Water now is turned to stone
Nurse and I can walk upon;
Still we find the flowing brooks
In the picture story-books.
All the pretty things put by,
Wait upon the children's eye,
Sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks,
In the picture story-books.
We may see how all things are
Seas and cities, near and far,
And the flying fairies' looks,
In the picture story-books.
Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven with repose;
And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays.
Though closer still the blinds we pull
To keep the shady parlour cool,
Yet he will find a chink or two
To slip his golden fingers through.
The dusty attic spider-clad
He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;
And through the broken edge of tiles
Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.
Meantime his golden face around
He bares to all the garden ground,
And sheds a warm and glittering look
Among the ivy's inmost nook.
THE angler rose, he took his rod,
He kneeled and made his prayers to God.
The living God sat overhead:
The angler tripped, the eels were fed
While the milder fates consent,
Let's enjoy our merriment :
Drink, and dance, and pipe, and play ;
Kiss our dollies night and day :
Crowned with clusters of the vine,
Let us sit, and quaff our wine.
Call on Bacchus, chant his praise ;
Shake the thyrse, and bite the bays :
Rouse Anacreon from the dead,
And return him drunk to bed :
Sing o'er Horace, for ere long
Death will come and mar the song :
Then shall Wilson and Gotiere
Never sing or play more here.
Little Indian, Sioux, or Crow,
Little frosty Eskimo,
Little Turk or Japanee,
Oh! don't you wish that you were me?
You have seen the scarlet trees
And the lions over seas;
You have eaten ostrich eggs,
And turned the turtle off their legs.
Such a life is very fine,
But it's not so nice as mine:
You must often as you trod,
Have wearied NOT to be abroad.
You have curious things to eat,
I am fed on proper meat;
You must dwell upon the foam,
But I am safe and live at home.
Chorus.—Robin shure in hairst,
I shure wi’ him.
Fient a heuk had I,
Yet I stack by him.
I GAED up to Dunse,
To warp a wab o’ plaiden,
At his daddie’s yett,
Wha met me but Robin:
Robin shure, &c.
Was na Robin bauld,
Tho’ I was a cotter,
Play’d me sic a trick,
An’ me the El’er’s dochter!
Robin shure, &c.
Robin promis’d me
A’ my winter vittle;
No fault in women, to refuse
The offer which they most would chuse.
--No fault: in women, to confess
How tedious they are in their dress;
--No fault in women, to lay on
The tincture of vermilion;
And there to give the cheek a dye
Of white, where Nature doth deny.
--No fault in women, to make show
Of largeness, when they're nothing so;
When, true it is, the outside swells
With inward buckram, little else.
--No fault in women, though they be
But seldom from suspicion free;
--No fault in womankind at all,
If they but slip, and never fall.
YE maggots, feed on Nicol’s brain,
For few sic feasts you’ve gotten;
And fix your claws in Nicol’s heart,
For deil a bit o’t’s rotten.
Reach with your whiter hands to me
Some crystal of the spring;
And I about the cup shall see
Fresh lilies flourishing.
Or else, sweet nymphs, do you but this--
To th' glass your lips incline;
And I shall see by that one kiss
The water turn'd to wine.