Blythe, blythe, blythe was she,
Blythe was she but and ben;
Weel she loo'd a Hawick gill,
And leugh to see a tappit hen.
She took me in, she set me down,
And hecht to keep me lawin'-free;
But, cunning carline that she was,
She gart me birle my bawbie.
We loo'd the liquor well eneugh;
But waes my heart my cash was done,
Before that I had quench'd my drouth,
And laith I was to pawn my shoon.
When we had three times toom'd our stoup,
And the neist chappin new begun,
In startit, to heeze up our hope,
Young Andro, wi' his cutty gun.
The carline brocht her kebbuck ben,
Wi' girdle-cakes weel toasted brown,
Weel does the canny kimmer ken
They gar the scuds gae glibber down.
We ca'd the bicker aft about ;
Till dawnin' we ne'er jee'd our bun,
And ay the cleanest drinker out,
Was Andro, wi' his cutty gun
He did like ony mavis sing,
And, as I in his oxter sat,
He ca'd me ay his bonny thing,
And mony a sappy kiss I gat.
I hae been east, I hae been west,
I hae been far ayont the sun;
But the blythest lad that e'er I saw,
Was Andro, wi' his cutty gun.
["Andro and his cutty gun', is the work of a master."-BURNS. This blythesome, lively and admirable song was first published by Allan Ramsay.]
MY WIFE HAS TA'EN THE GEE.
A friend of mine came here yestreen,
And he wad hae me down
To drink a bottle o' ale wi' him
In the niest burrows town.
But, O! indeed it was, Sir,
Sae far the waur for me;
For, lang or e'er that I came hame,
My wife had ta'en the gee.
We sat sae late, and drank sae stout,
The truth I tell to you,
That, lang or e'er the midnight came,
We a' were roarin' fou.
My wife sits at the fire side,
And the tear blinds aye her e'e,
The ne'er a bed wad she gae to,
But sit and tak the gee.
In the mornin' sune when I cam doun,
The ne'er a word she spake,
But mony a sad and sour look,
And aye her head she'd shake.
My dear, quoth I, what aileth thee,
To look sae sour on me?
I'll never do the like again,
If you'll ne'er tak the gee.
When, that she heard, she ran, she flang
Her arms about my neck;
And twenty kisses in a crack,
And, poor wee thing, she grat.
If you'll ne'er do the like again,
But bide at hame wi' me,
I'll lay my life I'll be the wife
That never taks the gee.
[First published by Herd in 1789.1
Hae you any pots or pans,
Or any broken chandlers?
I am a tinker to my trade,
And newly come frae Flanders,
As scant of siller as of grace,
Disbanded, we've a bad run;
Gar tell the lady of the place,
I'm come to clout her cauldron.
Madam, if you have wark for me,
I'll do't to your contentment,
And dinna care a single flie
For any man's resentment,
For, lady fair, though I appear
To ev'ry ane a tinker,
Yet to yoursel I'm bauld to tell,
I am a gentle jinker.
Love, Jupiter into a swan,
Turn'd for his lovely Leda;
He like a bull o'er meadows ran,
To carry off Europa.
Then may not I, as well as he,
To cheat your Argus blinker,
And win your love, like mighty Jove,
Thus hide me in a tinker?
Sir, ye appear a cunning man,
But this fine plot you'll fail in,
For there is neither pot nor pan
Of mine you'll drive a nail in.
Then bind your budget on your back,
And nails up in your apron,
For I've a tinker under tack
That's used to clout my cauldron.
[A Galloway tradition ascribes to a Gordon of the House of Ken. mure the honour of composing the original words of this song, which are supposed to have assisted Allan Ramsay in modelling the present lyric. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.]
THE DRUCKEN WIFE OF GALLOWAY.
yon valley' a couple did tarry;
The wife she drank nacthing but sack and canary :
The gudeman complain'd to her friends right sairly,
O gin my wife wad drink hoolie and fairly!
First she drank Crummie, and syne she drank Gairie, And syne she has drucken my bonnie gray marie, That carried me through a' the dubs and the lairie : O! gin my wife wad drink hoolie and fairly!
She has drucken her hose, syne has she her shoon,
Her snaw-white mutch and her bonnie new gown,
Her sark of the hollans that cover'd her rarely:
O gin my wife wad drink hoolie and fairly!
Wad she drink but her ain things I wadnae much care,
But she drinks my claes that I canna weel spare;
When I'm wi' my gossips it angers me sairly:
O! gin my wife wad drink hoolie and fairly!
My Sunday's coat she has laid it a wad,
The best blue bonnet e'er was o' my head;
At kirk and at market I'm covered but barely
O! gin my wife wad drink hoolie and fairly!
The bonny white mittens that gade on my hans,
Wi' her neighbour wife she has put them in pawns;
My bane-headed staff that I loved so dearly—
O! gin my wife wad drink hoolie and fairly!
I sit by my ingle sae mim and sae mute,
While she looks as black and as bitter as soot;
And when she's for war, I am aye for a parley-
O! gin my wife wad drink hoolie and fairly!
When I am saddest, she laughs and she sings;
My gold and my siller she's lending them wings;
She shines like a princess-I scrimpet and sparely-
O! gin my wife wad drink hoolie and fairly!
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