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He's get his will ; why no ? 't is good my part To give him that, and he'll give me his beart.


Ye dash the lad with constant slighting pride ; Hatred for love is unco sair to bide. But ye'll repent ye, if his love grow cauld. What lies a dorty maiden when she's auld ? Like dawted wean, that tarrows at its meat, That for some feckless whim will orp and greet : The lave laugh at it till the dinner 's past, And syne the fool thing is obliged to fast, Or scart anither's leavings at the last. Fy, Jenny, think, and dinna sit your time !

He may indeed, for ten or fifteen days, Mak muckle oye, with an unco fraise, And daut you baith afore fowk and your lane ; But soon as your newfangleness is gane, He 'll look upon you as his tether-stake, And think he's tint his freedom for your sake; Instead then of lang days of sweet delyte, Ae day be dumb, and a' the neist he'll flyte ; And may be, in his barlick hoods, ne'er stick To lend his loving wife a loundering lick.


Tune, -Polwart on the Green.'


The dorty will repent,

If lover's heart grow cauld ; And nane her smiles will tent,

Soon as her face looks auld.

The dawted bairn thus takes the pet,

Nor eats though hunger crave ; Whimpers and tarrows at its meat,

And's laught at by the lave.
They jest it ill the dinner's past,

Thus by itself abused,
The fool thing is obliged to fast,

Or eat what they've refused.

TUNE. — 'O dear mother, what shall I do?'
O dear Peggy, love's beguiling,
We ought not to trust his smiling ;
Better far to do as I do,
Lest a harder luck betide you.
Lasses, when their fancy's carried,
Think of naught but to be married ;
Running to a life destroys
Heartsome, free, and youthfu' joys.



I never thought a single life a crime !


Nor I : but love in whispers lets us ken, That men were made for us, and we for men.


Sic coarse-spun thoughts as thae want pith to move My settled mind ; I'm o'er far gane in love. Patie to me is dearer than my breath ; But want of him I dread nae other skaith. There's nane of a' the herds that tread the green Has sio a smile, or sic twa glancing een. And then he speaks with sic a taking art, His words they thirle like music through my heart. How blythly can he sport, and gently rave, And jest at feckless fears that fright the lave ! Ilk day that he's alane upon the hill, He reads fell books that teach him meikle skill. He is — but what need I say that or this? I'd spend a month to tell you what he is ! In a' he says or does there's sio a gate, The rest seem coofs compared with my dear Pate ; His better sense will lang his love secure ; Ill-nature heffs in sauls that 's weak and poor.

If Roger is my jo, he kens himsell, For sie a tale I never heard him tell. He glowrs and sighs, and I can guess the cause ; But wha's obliged to spell his hums and haws ? Whene'er he likes to tell his mind mair plain, I'se tell him frankly ne'er to do 't again. They're fools that slav'ry like, and may be free ; The chiels may a' knit up themselves for me!



Be doing your ways ! for me, I have a mind To be as yielding as my Patie 's kind.

Tune. How can I be sad on my wedding-day?'


Heh! lass, how can ye looe that rattle-skull ?
A very deil that ay maun have his will.
We'll soon hear tell what a poor fechting life
You twa will lead, sae soon's ye're man and wife !

I'll rin the risk ; nor have I ony fear,
But rather think ilk langsome day a year,
Till I with pleasure mount my bridal-bed,
Where on my Patie's breast I'll lean my head.
There we may kiss as lang as kissing 's good,
And what we do there's nane dare call it rude.

How shall I be sad when a husband I bae,
That has better sense than ony of the
Sour, weak, silly fellows, that study, like fools,
To sink their ain joy, and make their wives snools!
The man who is prudent ne'er lightlies his wife,
Or with dull reproaches encourages strife ;
He praises her virtue, and ne'er will abuse
Her for a small failing, but find an excuse.


Hey, 'bonny lass of Branksome !' or 't be lang, Your witty Pate will put you in a sang !


your knee




O 't is a pleasant thing to be a bride,

Should gar your Patie think his half-worn Meg, Syne whinging getts about your ingle-side,

And her kend kisses, hardly worth a feg? Yelping for this or that with fasheous din !

PEGGY. To mak them brats then ye maun toil and spin.

Nae mair of that !- Dear Jenny, to be free, Ae wean fa's sick, ane scads itself wi' brue,

There's some men constanter in love than we. Ane breaks his shin, - anither tines his sioe :

Nor is the ferly great, when nature kind
The • Deel

o'er John Wabster:' hame grows hell,

Has blest them with solidity of mind ;
When Pate misca's ye waur than tongue can tell.

They 'll reason calmly, and with kindness smile,

When our short passions wad our peace beguile. Yes, 't is a heartsome thing to be a wife,

Sae, whensoe'er they slight their maiks at hame, When round the ingle-edge young sprouts are rife.

'T is ten to ane their wives are maist to blame. Gif I'm sae happy, I shall have delight

Then I'll employ with pleasure a' my art To hear their little plaints, and keep them right.

To keep him cheerfu', and secure his heart. Wow, Jenny ! can there greater pleasure be,

At e'en, when he comes weary frae the hill, Than see sic wee tots toolying at


I'll have a' things made ready to his will. When a' they ettle at, their greatest wish, - In winter, when he toils thro' wind and rain, Is to be made of, and obtain a kies?

A bleezing ingle, and a clean hearth-stane ; Can there be toil in tenting day and night

And soon as he flings by his plaid and staff, The like of them, when love makes care delight? The seething pot's be ready to take aff;

Clean hag-abag I'll spread upon his board, But poortith, Peggy, is the warst of a'!

And serve him with the best we can afford.
Gif o'er your heads ill chapce should begg'ry draw, Good-humour and white bigonets shall be
But little love or canty cheer can come

Guards to my face, to keep his love for me.
Frae duddy doublets, and a pantry toom.
Your nowt may die ; the spate may bear away

A dish of married love right soon grows cauld, Frae aff the howns your dainty rucks of hay ;

And dosens down to nane as fowk grow auld.
The thick-blawn wreaths of snaw, or blashy thows,
May smoor your wathers, and may rot your ewes ;
A dyvour buys your butter, woo, and cheese,

But we'll grow auld together, and ne'er find But or the day of payment breaks and flees ;

The loss of youth, when love grows on the mind. With glooman brow the laird seeks in his rent,

Bairns, and their bairns, make sure a firmer tye, 'T is no to gie, your merchant 's to the bent ; Than aught in love the like of us can spy. His honour maunna want, - he poinds your gear ; See yon twa elms, that grow up side by side, Syne driven frae house and hald, where will ye Suppose them some years syne bridegroom and bride; Dear Meg, be wise, and lead a single life; (steer?- Nearer and nearer ilka year they've prest, Troth, 't is nae mows to be a married wife!

Till wide their spreading branches are increased,

And in their mixture now are fully blest ; May sic ill luck befa' that silly she

This shields the other frae the eastlin blast ; Wha has sic fears, for that was never me !

That in return defends it frae the west. Let fowk bode weel, and strive to do their best ; Sic as stand single, - a state sae liked by you, Nae mair's required, - let Heaven make out the rest. Beneath ilk storm frae every airt maun bo.7. I've heard my honest uncle aften say That lads should a' for wives that's virtuous pray ; For the maist thrifty man could never get

I've done! I yield, dear lassie ; I maun yield; A well-stored room unless his wife wad let :

Your better sense has fairly won the field, Wherefore nocht shall be wanting on my part

With the assistance of a little fae To gather wealth to raise my shepherd's heart.

Lies darned within my breast this mony a day. Whate'er he wins, I'll guide with canny care, And win the vogue at market, tron, or fair,

SANG VI. For halesome, clean, cheap, and sufficient ware.

TUNE. — 'Nancy 's to the green-wood gane.' A flock of lambs, cheese, butter, and some woo, Shall first be sald to pay the laird his due ;

I yield, dear lassie, you have won, Syne a' behin's our ain. Thus without fear,

And there is nae denying, With love and rowth we thro' the warld will steer ;

That sure as light flows frae the sun, And when my Pate in bairns and gear grows rife,

Frae love proceeds complying.
He'll bless the day he gat me for his wife.

For a' that we can do or say

'Gainst love, nae thinker heeds us ; But what if some young giglet on the green,

They ken our bosoms lodge the fae, With dimpled cheeks, and twa bewitching een,

That by the heartstrings leads us.



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TUNE. — 'Mucking of Geordy's bure.' The laird who in riches and honor

Wad thrive, should be kindly and free, Nor rack the poor tenants who labor

To rise aboon poverty ; Else, like the pack-horse that's unfothered

And burdened, will tumble down faint : Thus virtue by hardships is smothered,

And rackers aft tine their rent.



Seeing 's believing, Glaud ; and I have seen Hab, that abroad has with our master been ; Our brave good master, wha right wisely fled, And left a fair estate to save his head; Because, ye ken fou well, he bravely chose To shine or set in glory with Montrose ;! Now Cromwell's gane to Nick, and ane ca’d Monk Has played the Rumple a right slee begunk, Restored King Charles, and ilka thing's in tune ; And Habby says, we'll see Sir William soon.

Then wad he gar his butler bring bedeen The nappy bottle ben, and glasses clean, Whilk in our breast raised sic a blythsome flame, As gart me mony a time gae dancing hame. My heart is e'en raised !- Dear nibour, will ye stay, And tak your dinner here with me the day? We'll send for Elspath too ; and upo' sight I'll whistle Pate and Roger frae the height. I'll yoke my sled, and send to the neist town, And bring a draught of ale baith stout and brown ; And gar our cottars a', man, wife, and wean, Drink 'till they tine the gate to stand their lane.


That makes me blyth indeed! But dinna flaw; Tell o'er your news again, and swear till 't a'.

16 To stand his liege's friend with great Montrose.' Ed. of 1808.

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I wadna bauk my friend his blyth design, Gif that it hadna first of a' been mine :

The open field. A cottage in a glen ;

An auld wife spirming at the sunny end. For here yestreen I brewed a bow of maut ;

At a small distance, by a blasted tree,
Yestreen I slew twa wethers prime and fat ;

With falded arms and half-raised look, ye see
A furlet of good cakes my Elspa beuk,
And a large ham hings reesting in the nook ;

What's this? - I canna bear't !- 't is waur than I saw mysell, or I came o'er the loan,

To be sae burnt with love, yet darna tell ! [hell, Our meikle pot, that scads the whey, put on, O Peggy! sweeter than the dawning day ; A mutton-bouk to boil, and ane we'll roast ; Sweeter than gowany glens or new-mawn hay ; And on the haggies Elspa spares nae cost ;

Blyther than lambs that frisk out o'er the knows ; Small are they shorn, and she can mix fou nice

Straighter than aught that in the forest grows; The gusty ingans with a curn of spice ;

Her een the clearest blob of dew outshines ;
Fat are the puddings ; heads and feet well sung ; The lily in her breast its beauty tines ;
And we've invited nibours auld and young,

Her legs, her arms, her cheeks, her mouth, her een, To pass this afternoon with glee and game,

Will be my dead, that will be shortly seen ! And drink our master's health and welcome hame :

For Pate looes her, — waes me!-- and she looes Pate; Ye mauna then refuse to join the rest,

And I with Neps, by some unlucky fate, Since ye're my nearest friend that I like best.

Made a daft vow. O, but ane be a beast, Bring wi' yo all your family ; and then,

That makes rash aiths till he's afore the priest ! Whene'er you please, I'll rant wi’ you again. I darna speak my mind, else a' the three,

But doubt, wad prove ilk ane my enemy.

'T is sair to thole ; - I'll try some witchcraft art, Spoke like ye'rsell, auld birky! Never fear

To break with ane, and win the other's heart. But at your banquet I shall first appear.

Here Mausy lives, a witch that for sma' price Faith, we shall bend the bicker, and look bauld,

Can cast her cantraips, and gi'e me advice. Till we forget that we are failed or auld !

She can o'ercast the night, and cloud the moon, Auld ! said I, - troth, I'm younger be a score,

And mak the deils obedient to her crune ; With your good news, than what I was before

; I'll dance or e’en! – Hey, Madge ! come forth, And howks unchristened weans out of their graves ;

At midnight hours, o'er the kirk-yard she raves, d' ye hear?

Boils up their livers in a warlock's pow;
Rins withershins about the hemlock low;
And seven times does her prayers backwards pray,

Till Plotcock comes with lumps of Lapland clay, The man's gane gyte ! - Dear Symon, welcome Mixt with the venom of black taids and snakes : here.

Of this unsonsy pictures aft she makes
What wad ye, Glaud, with a' this haste and din ? Of ony ane she hates, — and gars expire
Ye never let a body sit to spin.

With slow and racking pains afore a fire,
Stuck fu' of pins; the devilish pictures melt;

The pain by fowk they represent is felt.
Spin! Snuff! - Gae break your wheel, and burn

And yonder's Mause : ay, ay, she kens fu' weel, And set the meiklest peatstack in a low; [your tow,

When ane like me comes rinning to the deil ! Syne dance about the bane-fire till ye die ;

She and her cat sit beeking in her yard : Since now again we'll soon Sir William see.

To speak my errand, faith, amaist I'm feared !

But I maun do't, tho' I should never thrive : Blyth news indeed! - And wha was 't tald you o't? They gallop fast that deils and lasses drive.


What's that to you ? — Gae get my Sunday's coat;
Wale out the whitest of my bobbit bands,

A green kail-yard : a little fount,
My white-skin hose, and mittens for my hands ;

Where water poplin springs ; Then frae their washing cry the bairns in haste,

There sits a wife with wrinkled front,

And yet she spins and sings.
And mak ye’rsells as trig, head, feet, and waist,

As ye were a' to get young lads or een ;
For we're gawn o'er to dine with Sym bodeen.

TONE. — Carle, an the king come.'








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Well, since ye bid me, I shall tell ye a' That ilk ane talks about you, but a flaw. When last the wind made Glaud a roofless barn ; When last the burn bore down my mither's yarn ; When Brawny, elf-shot, never mair came hame; When Tibby kirn'd, and there nae butter came; When Bessy Freetock’s chuffy-cheeked wean To a fairy turned, and cou'dna stand its lane ; When Wattie wandered ae night thro' the shaw, And tint himsell amaist amang the snaw; When Mungo's mare stood still and swat wi’ fright, When he brought east the howdy under night; When Bawsy shot to dead upon


green ;
And Sara tint a snood was nae mair seen ; -
You, lucky, gat the wyte of a' fell out;
And ilka ane here dreads ye round about,
And say they may that mint to do ye skaith !!
For me to wrang ye I'll be very laith;

This fool imagines, -as do many sic, That I'm a witch in compact with Auld Nick, Because by education I was taught To speak and act aboon their common thought : Their gross mistake shall quickly now appear ; Soon shall they ken what brought, what keeps me

here. Now since the royal Charles and right's restored, A shepherdess is daughter to a lord. The bonny foundling that's brought up by Glaud, Wha has an uncle's care on her bestowed, Her infant-life I saved, when a false friend Bowed to the usurper, and her death designed, To establish him and his in all these plains That by right heritage to her pertains. She's now in her sweet bloom, has blood and charms or too much value for a shepherd's arms. None know't but me!-And if the morn were come, I'll tell them tales will gar them a'sing dumb. 1


1 «The powers attributed to witches, by the hinds and shepherds of Scotland, are admirably described and preserved by Ramsay. The clownish character, under the name of Bauldy, he has exhibited as a foil to get off his hero, and to expose the superstitious credulity and passions from whence these fancies originate. Bauldy is drawn, with great fidelity, from real life.'

1 In the edition of 1808, Mause's soliloquy is given thus :

Hard luck, alake! when poverty and eild,
Weeds out of fashion, and a lanely beild,
With a sma’ cast of wiles, should, in a twitch,
Gie ane the hatefu' name, A wrinkled witch !

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