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Thy handsome air, and graceful look,

Far excel any clownish rogie ;
Thou'rt match for laird, or lord, or duke,

My charming Kath’rine Ogie.
O were I but some shepherd swain !

To feed my flock beside thee,
At bughting-time to leave the plain,

In milking to abide thee;
I'd think myself a happier man,

With Kate, my club, and dogie,
Than he that hugs his thousands ten,

Had I but Kath'rine Ogie.
Then I'd despise th' imperial throne,

And statesmen's dangʻrous stations :
I'd be no king, I'd wear no crown,

I'd smile at conqu’ring nations :
Might I caress and still possess

This lass of whom I'm vogie ;
For these are toys, and still look less,

Compar'd with Kath'rine Ogie.
But I fear the gods have not decreed

For me so fine a creature,
Whose beauty rare makes her exceed

All other works in nature.
Clouds of despair surround my

That are both dark and foggie :
Pity my case, ye powers above,

Else I die for Kath'rine Ogie!

[“ The song of Katherine Ogie is very poor stuff, and altogether unworthy of so beautiful an air. I tried to alter it, but the awkward VOL. II.


sound Ogie,' recurring so often in the rhyme spoils every attempt at altering the piece."-BURNS.

Allan Cunningham calls it a genuine, old, and excellent song. “I have some suspicion,” he adds, " that the original name was Katherine Logie.” In D'Urfey's Pills to Purge Melancholy, there is an Anglo-Scottish song, but a very execrable one of 'Katharine Loggy.'

Katherine Ogie was first printed by Ramsay, with the letter X. ap. pended to it, signifying that the author's name was unknown.]


I'll gar our gudeman trow

That I'll sell the ladle,
If he winna buy to me

A new side saddle,
To ride to the kirk and frae the kirk,

And round about the toun,
Stand about, ye fisher jads,

And gie my goun room!

I'll gar our gudemàn trow

That I'll take the fling-strings,
If he winna buy to me

Twelve bonnie goud rings:
Ane for ilka finger,

And twa for ilka thoom;
Stand about, ye fisher jads,

And gie my goun room!

I'll gar our gudeman trow

That I'll tak the glengore,
If he winna fee to me

Three valets or four

To beir


up frae the dirt,
And ush me throw the toun,
Stand about, ye fisher jads,

And gie my goun room!

(" As illustrations of the above song, see Sir Richard Maitland's poem beginning,

Sum wyfis of the Burroustoun,
Sa wonder vane ar, and wantoun,

In warld they wait not quhat to weir, and Sir David Lyndsay's supplication against Syde Taillis and Mus. salit Faces.”-C. K. SHARPE

The above copy is accurately given from Mr. Sharpe's little curious Ballad Book, only thirty copies of which were ever printed ; Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Chambers gave the song the benefit of their poetical talents, but their emendations are here rejected.]


The lasses o' the Cannogate,

0, they are wond'rous nice, They winna gie a single kiss,

But for a double price

Gar hang them, gar hang them

Heich upon a tree,
For we'll get better up the gate,

For a bawbee.

[" This seems to be a Satire on the court ladies of Edinburgh, it was remembered by an old Gentlewoman.”—C. K. SHARPE.

" The Canongate was densely inhabited by persons of the first distinction."-CHAMBERS.)


There lived a man into the west,

And O but he was cruel,
For on his waddin nicht at e'en

He sat up and grat for gruel.
They brought to him a gude sheep's head,

A napkin, and a towel :
Gar tak your whim-whams a' frae me,

And bring me fast my gruel.
There is nae meal into the house,

What shall I do, my jewel ?-
Gae to the pock and shake a lock

For I canna want my gruel.
There is nae milk into the house,

What shall I do my jewel ?
Gae to the midden, and milk the soo,

For I wunna want my gruel.

(From the Ballad Book, 1824. Mr. Cunningham has printed a slightly different copy from the recitation of Sir Walter Scott, and added a third verse, in which he has given a name to the bride cannie Nancy Newell.'}


O Bessie Bell and Mary Gray,

They war twa bonnie lasses !
They biggit a bower on yon burn brae,

And theekit it o'er wi' rashes.

They theekit it o'er wi' rashes green,

They theekit it o'er wi’ heather,
But the pest cam frae the burrows town,

And slew them baith thegither!
They thought to lye in Methven kirk yard,

Amang their noble kin,
But they maun lye in Stronach Haugh,

To biek forenent the sin
And Bessy Bell and Mary Gray,

They war twa bonnie lasses !
They biggit a bower on yon burn brae,

And theekit it o'er wi’ rashes.

[From the Ballad Book, 1824. • There is much tenderness and sim. plicity in these verses.'-SIR WALTER Scott.

The story of Bessy Bell and Mary Gray has been so often told, and is so well known, that it need not be repeated here. See Allan Ramsay's singular alteration of this pathetic ballad.]


Hearken, and I will tell you how
Young Muirland Willie came to woo,
Though he could neither say nor do ;

The truth I tell to you.

ay, he cried, whate'er betide,
Maggie I’se hae to be

my bride.

On his gray yaud as he did ride,
Wi’ dirk and pistol by his side,
He prick'd her on wi' mickle pride,

Wi' mickle mirth and glee,

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