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And there will be sow-libber Patie,

And plooky-fac'd Wat o' the mill, Capper-nos'd Francie and Gibbie,

That wins in the how of the hill ; And there will be Alaster Sibbie,

Wha in with black Bessie did mool, With snivelling Lilly, and Tibby,

The lass that stands aft on the stool. And Madge that was buckled to Steenie,

And coft him grey breeks to his a-, Who after was hangit for stealing,

Great mercy it happen'd na warse : And there will be gleed Geordy Janners,

And Kirsh with the lily-white leg, Wha gade to the south for manners,

• And danced the daft dance' in Mons-meg. And there will be Judan Maclaurie,

And blinkin daft Barbara Macleg, Wi' flae-lugged sharney-fac'd Laurie,

And shangy-mou'd haluket Meg. And there will be happer-a'd Nancy,

And fairy-fac'd Flowrie by name, Muck Madie, and fat hippit Grisy,

The lass wi' the gowden wame. And there will be Girn-again-Gibbie,

With his glaikit wife Jenny Bell, And misle-shinn'd Mungo Macapie,

The lad that was skipper himsel. There lads and lasses in pearlings

Will feast in the heart of the ha', On sybows, and rifarts, and carlings,

That are baith sodden and raw

And there will be fadges and brochan,

With fouth of good gabbocks of skate,
Powsowdy, and drammock, and crowdy,

And caller nowt-feet in a plate.
And there will be partans and buckies,

And whitens and speldings enew,
With singed sheep-heads, and a haggies,

And scadlips to sup till ye spew.

And there will be lapper'd milk kebbocks,

And sowens, and farls, and baps,
With swats, and well scraped paunches,

And brandy in stoups and in caps :
And there will be meal-kail and castocks,

With skink to sup till ye rive,
And roasts to roast on a brander,

Of flukes that were taken alive.

Scrapt haddock, wilks, dulse and tangle,

And a mill of good snishing to prie;
When weary with eating and drinking,

We'll rise up and dance till we die.
Then fy let us a' to the bridal,

For there will be lilting there;
For Jock's to be married to Maggie,

The lass wi' the gowden hair.

(This very lively and graphic old song was first published in Watson's Collection of Scottish Poetry, 1706.)

SHE ROSE AND LOOT ME IN.

FRANCIS SEMPLE OF BELTREES.

The night her silent sable wore,

And gloomy were the skies,
Of glittering stars appeared no more

Than those in Nelly's eyes;
When to her father's gate I came,

Where I had often been,
And begged my fair, my lovely dame,

To rise and let me in.
Fast locked within my close embrace,

She trembling stood ashamed-
Her swelling breast, and glowing face,

And every touch inflamed.
With look and accents all divine

She did my warmth reprove, The more she spoke, the more she looked,

The warmer waxed my love. Then, then beyond expressing,

Transporting was the joy!
I knew no greater blessing,

So blest a man was 1 :
And she all ravish'd with delight,

Bid me oft come again,
And kindly vowed that every night

She'd rise and let me in.
Full soon, soon I returned again

When stars were streaming free,
Oh slowly, slowly came she down,

And stood and gazed on me:

Her lovely eyes with tears ran o'er,

Repenting her rash sin-
And aye she mourn’d the fatal hour

She rose and loot me in.

But who could cruelly deceive,

Or from such beauty part ?
I lov'd her so, I could not leave

The charmer of my heart :
We wedded, and I thought me blest

Such loveliness to win ;
And now she thanks the happy hour

She rose and loot me in.

[First printed in the Tea Table Miscellany, 1724, The versions of Ramsay and Herd have not here been printed on account of their indelicacy. I have printed Allan Cunningham's copy of the song in preference to Mr. Chambers', as having more of the old spirit in it. The present song has been claimed by Ritson as an English pro. duction.)

MAGGIE LAUDER.

FRANCIS SEMPLE OF BELTREES.

Wha wadnae be in love

Wi' bonnie Maggie Lauder!
A piper met her gaun to Fife,

And spier'd what was't they ca'd her :
Right scornfully she answered him,

Begone, you hallan-shaker;
Jog on your gate, you blether-skate,

My name is Maggie Lauder.

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Piper, quo' Meg, hae ye your bags,

Or is your drone in order?
If

you be Rab, I've heard of you,

Live you upon the border?
The lasses a’, baith far and near,

Have heard o' Rab the Ranter-
I'll shake my foot wi’ right good will,

Gif you'll blaw up your chanter.
Then to his bags he few wi' speed,

About the drone he twisted ;
Meg up and walloped o'er the green,

For brawlie could she frisk it :
Weel done, quoth he ; play up, quoth she ;

Weel bobbed! quo Rab the Ranter ; 'Tis worth my while to play, indeed,

When I hae sic a dancer.

Weel hae you played your part, quo Meg,

Your cheeks are like the crimsonThere's nane in Scotland plays sae weel

Since we lost Habbie Simpson.

* A celebrated piper in Renfrewshire.

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