THE BAIRNS gat out wi’ an unco shout,
The deuks dang o’er my daddie, O!
The fien-ma-care, quo’ the feirrie auld wife,
He was but a paidlin’ body, O!
He paidles out, and he paidles in,
An’ he paidles late and early, O!
This seven lang years I hae lien by his side,
An’ he is but a fusionless carlie, O.
O haud your tongue, my feirrie auld wife,
O haud your tongue, now Nansie, O:
I’ve seen the day, and sae hae ye,
Ye wad na ben sae donsie, O.
I’ve seen the day ye butter’d my brose,
And cuddl’d me late and early, O;
But downa-do’s come o’er me now,
And oh, I find it sairly, O!
HERE lie Willie Michie’s banes;
O Satan, when ye tak him,
Gie him the schulin o’ your weans,
For clever deils he’ll mak them!
GUDE pity me, because I’m little!
For though I am an elf o’ mettle,
An’ can, like ony wabster’s shuttle,
Jink there or here,
Yet, scarce as lang’s a gude kail-whittle,
I’m unco queer.
An’ now Thou kens our waefu’ case;
For Geordie’s jurr we’re in disgrace,
Because we stang’d her through the place,
An’ hurt her spleuchan;
For whilk we daurna show our face
Within the clachan.
An’ now we’re dern’d in dens and hollows,
And hunted, as was William Wallace,
Wi’ constables-thae blackguard fallows,
An’ sodgers baith;
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!
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
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.
OLD Winter, with his frosty beard,
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferred:
“What have I done of all the year,
To bear this hated doom severe?
My cheerless suns no pleasure know;
Night’s horrid car drags, dreary slow;
My dismal months no joys are crowning,
But spleeny English hanging, drowning.
“Now Jove, for once be mighty civil.
To counterbalance all this evil;
Give me, and I’ve no more to say,
Give me Maria’s natal day!
That brilliant gift shall so enrich me,
Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match me.”
“’Tis done!” says Jove; so ends my story,
And Winter once rejoiced in glory.
WHEN Princes and Prelates,
And hot-headed zealots,
A’ Europe had set in a low, a low,
The poor man lies down,
Nor envies a crown,
And comforts himself as he dow, as he dow,
And comforts himself as he dow.
The black-headed eagle,
As keen as a beagle,
He hunted o’er height and o’er howe,
In the braes o’ Gemappe,
He fell in a trap,
E’en let him come out as he dow, dow, dow,
E’en let him come out as he dow.
· · · · · · · But truce with commotions,
And new-fangled notions,
Wanton wenches do not bring
For my hairs black colouring :
For my locks, girls, let 'em be
Grey or white, all's one to me.
Inter marmoreas Leonorae pendula colles
Fortunata nimis Machina dicit horas.
Quas MANIBUS premit illa duas insensa papillas
Cur mihi sit DIGITO tangere, amata, nefas?