Great Hercules and Sampson too
Were stronger far than I or you,
Yet they were baffled by their dears,
And felt the distaff and the shears.

Stout gates of brass, and well-built walls,
Are proof 'gainst swords and cannon-balls;
But nought is found, by sea or land,
That can a wayward wife withstand.

know not from whence to get the right reading of this song. Herd first published it in a very imperfect state in 1769, and since that time it has undergone many emendations.

"Miss Grahame was a maiden lady of Dumfries," says Mr. Cunningham," of lively wit and fascinating manners, and in her youth a most accomplished dancer."]

THE MILLER.

SIR JOHN CLERK OF PENNYCUICK.

O merry may the maid be

Who marries wi' the miller,

For foul day or fair day

He's ay bringing till her;

Has ay a penny in his pouch,

Has something het for supper,

Wi' beef and pease, and melting cheese,
An' lumps o' yellow butter.

Behind the door stands bags o' meal,

And in the ark is plenty;

And good hard cakes his mither bakes,
And mony a sweeter dainty.

A good fat sow, a sleeky cow,
Are standing in the byre;

Whilst winking puss, wi' mealy mou,
Is playing round the fire.

Good signs are these, my mither says,
And bids me take the miller;
A miller's wife's a merry wife,
And he's ay bringing till her.
For meal or maut she'll never want
Till wood and water's scanty;
As langs there's cocks and cackling hens,
She'll ay hae eggs in plenty.

In winter time, when wind and sleet
Shake ha-house, barn, and byre,
He sits aside a clean hearth stane,
Before a rousing fire;

O'er foaming ale he tells his tale;
And ay to show he's happy,

He claps his weans, and dawtes his wife
Wi' kisses warm and sappy.

[From Yair's Charmer, 1751.]

CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN.

DUKE OF GORDON.

Born 1743-Died 1827.

There's cauld kail in Aberdeen,

And castocks in Stra'bogie;

Gin I hae but a bonnie lass,

Ye're welcome to your cogie.

And ye may sit up a' the night,
And drink till it be braid day-light:
Gie me a lass baith clean and tight,
To dance the reel o' Bogie.

In cotillons the French excel,
John Bull loves country dances;
The Spaniards dance fandangos well;
Mynheer an all'mand prances:
In foursome reels the Scots delight,
At threesomes they dance wond'rous light,
But twasomes ding a' out o' sight,
Danc'd to the reel o' Bogie.

Come, lads, and view your partners weel,
Wale each a blithesome rogie:

I'll tak this lassie to mysel',

She looks sae keen and vogie:

Now, piper lad, bang up the spring;
The country fashion is the thing,
Το pree their mou's ere we begin

To dance the reel o' Bogie.

Now ilka lad has got a lass

Save you auld doited fogie,
And ta'en a fling upon the grass,
As they do in Stra'bogie;

But a' the lasses look sae fain
We canna think oursels to hain,

For they maun hae their come-again
To dance the reel o' Bogie.

Now a' the lads hae done their best,
Like true men o' Stra'bogie;
We'll stop a while and tak a rest,

And tipple out a cogie.

Come now, my lads, and tak your glass,
And try ilk other to surpass

In wishing health to ev'ry lass,

To dance the reel o' Bogie.

[First published in the second volume of Johnson. "The duke's song," Burns wrote to the late James Hoy, librarian at Gordon Castle, "independant totally of his dukeship, charms me."]

THE BONNIE BRUCKET LASSIE.

JAMES TYTLER.

Born 1747-Died 1805.

The bonnie brucket lassie,
She's blue beneath the een;

She was the fairest lassie

That danced on the green.
A lad he loo'd her dearly,
She did his love return;
But he his vows has broken,
And left her for to mourn.

My shape, she says, was handsome,
My face was fair and clean;
But now I'm bonnie brucket,
And blue beneath the een.
My eyes were bright and sparkling,
Before that they turn'd blue;
But now they're dull with weeping,
And a', my love, for you.

My person it was comely,

My shape they said was neat ;
But now I am quite changed,

My stays they winna meet.
A' night I sleeped soundly,
My mind was never sad;
But now my rest is broken,
Wi' thinking o' my lad.

O could I live in darkness,
Or hide me in the sea,
Since my love is unfaithful,
And has forsaken me!
No other love I suffer'd
Within my breast to dwell;
In nought I have offended
But loving him too well.

Her lover heard her mourning,
As by he chanced to pass;
And press'd unto his bosom
The lovely brucket lass.
My dear, he said, cease grieving;
Since that your love's so true,

My bonnie brucket lassie,

I'll faithful prove to you.

["The idea of this song is to me very original: the two first lines are all of it that is old. The rest of the song is the work of an obscure, tippling, but extraordinary body of the name of Tytler, commonly known by the name of Balloon Tytler, from his having projected a balloon: a mortal, who, though he drudges about Edinburgh as a common printer, with leaky shoes, a sky-lighted hat, and kneebuckles as unlike as George-by-the-grace-of-God, and Solomon-theson-of-David; yet that same unknown drunken mortal is author and compiler of three-fourths of Elliot's pompous Encyclopædia Britannica, which he composed at half-a-guinea a week.”—BURNS.]