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Part XLPart XL
Part XL
A Grace After Dinner, Extempore
O thou, in whom we live and move-
Who made the sea and shore;
Thy goodness constantly we prove,
And grateful would adore;
And, if it please Thee, Power above!
Still grant us, with such store,
The friend we trust, the fair we love-
And we desire no more. Amen!
O May, Thy Morn
O may, thy morn was ne`er so sweet
As the mirk night o` December!
For sparkling was the rosy wine,
And private was the chamber:
And dear was she I dare na name,
But I will aye remember:
And dear was she I dare na name,
But I will aye remember.
And here`s to them that, like oursel,
Can push about the jorum!
And here`s to them that wish us weel,
May a` that`s guid watch o`er `em!
And here`s to them, we dare na tell,
The dearest o` the quorum!
And here`s to them, we dare na tell,
The dearest o` the quorum.
Ae Fond Kiss, And Then We Sever
tune-"Rory Dall`s Port."
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I`ll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I`ll wage thee.
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him,
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.
I`ll ne`er blame my partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy:
But to see her was to love her;
Love but her, and love for ever.
Had we never lov`d sae kindly,
Had we never lov`d sae blindly,
Never met-or never parted,
We had ne`er been broken-hearted.
Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, Enjoyment, Love and Pleasure!
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!
Ae fareweeli alas, for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I`ll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I`ll wage thee.
Behold The Hour, The Boat, Arrive
Behold the hour, the boat, arrive!
My dearest Nancy, O fareweel!
Severed frae thee, can I survive,
Frae thee whom I hae lov`d sae weel?
Endless and deep shall be my grief;
LNae ray of comfort shall I see,
But this most precious, dear belief,
That thou wilt still remember me!
Alang the solitary shore
Where flitting sea-fowl round me cry,
Across the rolling, dashing roar,
I`ll westward turn my wishful eye.
"Happy thou Indian grove," I`ll say,
"Where now my Nancy`s path shall be!
While thro` your sweets she holds her way,
O tell me, does she muse on me?"
Thou Gloomy December
Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December!
Ance mair I hail thee wi` sorrow and care;
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember-
Parting wi` Nancy, oh, ne`er to meet mair!
Fond lovers` parting is sweet, painful pleasure,
Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour;
But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever!
Is anguish unmingled, and agony pure!
Wild as the winter now tearing the forest,
Till the last leaf o` the summer is flown;
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom,
Till my last hope and last comfort is gone.
Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December,
Still shall I hail thee wi` sorrow and care;
For sad was the parting thou makes me remember,
Parting wi` Nancy, oh, ne`er to meet mair.
My Native Land Sae Far Awa
O sad and heavy, should I part,
But for her sake, sae far awa;
Unknowing what my way may thwart,
My native land sae far awa.
Thou that of a` things Maker art,
That formed this Fair sae far awa,
Gie body strength, then I`ll ne`er start
At this my way sae far awa.
How true is love to pure desert!
Like mine for her sae far awa;
And nocht can heal my bosom`s smart,
While, oh, she is sae far awa!
Nane other love, nane other dart,
I feel but her`s sae far awa;
But fairer never touch`d a heart
Than her`s, the Fair, sae far awa.
I do Confess Thou Art Sae Fair
Alteration of an Old Poem.
I Do confess thou art sae fair,
I was been o`er the lugs in luve,
Had I na found the slightest prayer
That lips could speak thy heart could muve.
I do confess thee sweet, but find
Thou art so thriftless o` thy sweets,
Thy favours are the silly wind
That kisses ilka thing it meets.
See yonder rosebud, rich in dew,
Amang its native briers sae coy;
How sune it tines its scent and hue,
When pu`d and worn a common toy.
Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide,
Tho` thou may gaily bloom awhile;
And sune thou shalt be thrown aside,
Like ony common weed and vile.
Lines On Fergusson, The Poet
Ill-fated genius! Heaven-taught Fergusson!
What heart that feels and will not yield a tear,
To think Life`s sun did set e`er well begun
To shed its influence on thy bright career.
O why should truest Worth and Genius pine
Beneath the iron grasp of Want and Woe,
While titled knaves and idiot-Greatness shine
In all the splendour Fortune can bestow?
The Weary Pund O` Tow
Chorus.-The weary pund, the weary pund,
The weary pund o` tow;
I think my wife will end her life,
Before she spin her tow.
I bought my wife a stane o` lint,
As gude as e`er did grow,
And a` that she has made o` that
Is ae puir pund o` tow.
The weary pund, &c.
There sat a bottle in a bole,
Beyont the ingle low;
And aye she took the tither souk,
To drouk the stourie tow.
The weary pund, &c.
Quoth I, For shame, ye dirty dame,
Gae spin your tap o` tow!
She took the rock, and wi` a knock,
She brak it o`er my pow.
The weary pund, &c.
At last her feet-I sang to see`t!
Gaed foremost o`er the knowe,
And or I wad anither jad,
I`ll wallop in a tow.
The weary pund, &c.
When She Cam` Ben She Bobbed
O when she cam` ben she bobbed fu` law,
O when she cam` ben she bobbed fu` law,
And when she cam` ben, she kiss`d Cockpen,
And syne denied she did it at a`.
And was na Cockpen right saucy witha`?
And was na Cockpen right saucy witha`?
In leaving the daughter of a lord,
And kissin` a collier lassie an` a`!
O never look down, my lassie, at a`,
O never look down, my lassie, at a`,
Thy lips are as sweet, and thy figure complete,
As the finest dame in castle or ha`.
Tho` thou has nae silk, and holland sae sma`,
Tho` thou has nae silk, and holland sae sma`,
Thy coat and thy sark are thy ain handiwark,
And lady Jean was never sae braw.
Scroggam, My Dearie
There was a wife wonn`d in Cockpen, Scroggam;
She brew`d gude ale for gentlemen;
Sing auld Cowl lay ye down by me,
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum.
The gudewife`s dochter fell in a fever, Scroggam;
The priest o` the parish he fell in anither;
Sing auld Cowl lay ye down by me,
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum.
They laid the twa i` the bed thegither, Scroggam;
That the heat o` the tane might cool the tither;
Sing auld Cowl, lay ye down by me,
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum.
My Collier Laddie
"Whare live ye, my bonie lass?
And tell me what they ca` ye;"
"My name," she says, "is mistress Jean,
And I follow the Collier laddie."
"My name, she says, &c.
"See you not yon hills and dales
The sun shines on sae brawlie;
They a` are mine, and they shall be thine,
Gin ye`ll leave your Collier laddie.
"They a` are mine, &c.
"Ye shall gang in gay attire,
Weel buskit up sae gaudy;
And ane to wait on every hand,
Gin ye`ll leave your Collier laddie."
"And ane to wait, &c.
"Tho` ye had a` the sun shines on,
And the earth conceals sae lowly,
I wad turn my back on you and it a`,
And embrace my Collier laddie.
"I wad turn my back, &c.
"I can win my five pennies in a day,
An` spen`t at night fu` brawlie:
And make my bed in the collier`s neuk,
And lie down wi` my Collier laddie.
"And make my bed, &c.
"Love for love is the bargain for me,
Tho` the wee cot-house should haud me;
and the warld before me to win my bread,
And fair fa` my Collier laddie!"
"And the warld before me, &c.
Sic A Wife As Willie Had
Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed,
The spot they ca`d it Linkumdoddie;
Willie was a wabster gude,
Could stown a clue wi` ony body:
He had a wife was dour and din,
O Tinkler Maidgie was her mither;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wad na gie a button for her!
She has an e`e, she has but ane,
The cat has twa the very colour;
Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump,
A clapper tongue wad deave a miller:
A whiskin beard about her mou`,
Her nose and chin they threaten ither;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wadna gie a button for her!
She`s bow-hough`d, she`s hein-shin`d,
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter;
She`s twisted right, she`s twisted left,
To balance fair in ilka quarter:
She has a lump upon her breast,
The twin o` that upon her shouther;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wadna gie a button for her!
Auld baudrons by the ingle sits,
An` wi` her loof her face a-washin;
But Willie`s wife is nae sae trig,
She dights her grunzie wi` a hushion;
Her walie nieves like midden-creels,
Her face wad fyle the Logan Water;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wadna gie a button for her!
Lady Mary Ann
O lady Mary Ann looks o`er the Castle wa`,
She saw three bonie boys playing at the ba`,
The youngest he was the flower amang them a`,
My bonie laddie`s young, but he`s growin` yet.
O father, O father, an ye think it fit,
We`ll send him a year to the college yet,
We`ll sew a green ribbon round about his hat,
And that will let them ken he`s to marry yet.
Lady Mary Ann was a flower in the dew,
Sweet was its smell and bonie was its hue,
And the longer it blossom`d the sweeter it grew,
For the lily in the bud will be bonier yet.
Young Charlie Cochran was the sprout of an aik,
Bonie and bloomin` and straught was its make,
The sun took delight to shine for its sake,
And it will be the brag o` the forest yet.
The simmer is gane when the leaves they were green,
And the days are awa` that we hae seen,
But far better days I trust will come again;
For my bonie laddie`s young, but he`s growin` yet.
Kellyburn Braes
There lived a carl in Kellyburn Braes,
Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi` thyme;
And he had a wife was the plague of his days,
And the thyme it is wither`d, and rue is in prime.
Ae day as the carl gaed up the lang glen,
Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi` thyme;
He met with the Devil, says, "How do you fen?"
And the thyme it is wither`d, and rue is in prime.
I`ve got a bad wife, sir, that`s a` my complaint,
Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi` thyme;
"For, savin your presence, to her ye`re a saint,"
And the thyme it is wither`d, and rue is in prime.
It`s neither your stot nor your staig I shall crave,
Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi` thyme;
"But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have,"
And the thyme it is wither`d, and rue is in prime.
"O welcome most kindly!" the blythe carl said,
Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi` thyme;
"But if ye can match her ye`re waur than ye`re ca`d,"
And the thyme it is wither`d, and rue is in prime.
The Devil has got the auld wife on his back,
Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi` thyme;
And, like a poor pedlar, he`s carried his pack,
And the thyme it is wither`d, and rue is in prime.
He`s carried her hame to his ain hallan door,
Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi` thyme;
Syne bade her gae in, for a bitch, and a whore,
And the thyme it is wither`d, and rue is in prime.
Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o` his band,
Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi` thyme:
Turn out on her guard in the clap o` a hand,
And the thyme it is wither`d, and rue is in prime.
The carlin gaed thro` them like ony wud bear,
Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi` thyme;
Whae`er she gat hands on cam near her nae mair,
And the thyme it is wither`d, and rue is in prime.
A reekit wee deevil looks over the wa`,
Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi` thyme;
"O help, maister, help, or she`ll ruin us a`!"
And the thyme it is wither`d, and rue is in prime.
The Devil he swore by the edge o` his knife,
Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi` thyme;
He pitied the man that was tied to a wife,
And the thyme it is wither`d, and rue is in prime.
The Devil he swore by the kirk and the bell,
Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi` thyme;
He was not in wedlock, thank Heav`n, but in hell,
And the thyme it is wither`d, and rue is in prime.
Then Satan has travell`d again wi` his pack,
Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi` thyme;
And to her auld husband he`s carried her back,
And the thyme it is wither`d, and rue is in prime.
I hae been a Devil the feck o` my life,
Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi` thyme;
"But ne`er was in hell till I met wi` a wife,"
And the thyme it is wither`d, and rue is in prime.
The Slave`s Lament
It was in sweet Senegal that my foes did me enthral,
For the lands of Virginia,-ginia, O:
Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see it more;
And alas! I am weary, weary O:
Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see it more;
And alas! I am weary, weary O.
All on that charming coast is no bitter snow and frost,
Like the lands of Virginia,-ginia, O:
There streams for ever flow, and there flowers for ever blow,
And alas! I am weary, weary O:
There streams for ever flow, and there flowers for ever blow,
And alas! I am weary, weary O:
The burden I must bear, while the cruel scourge I fear,
In the lands of Virginia,-ginia, O;
And I think on friends most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear,
And alas! I am weary, weary O:
And I think on friends most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear,
And alas! I am weary, weary O:
O Can Ye Labour Lea?
Chorus-O can ye labour lea, young man,
O can ye labour lea?
It fee nor bountith shall us twine
Gin ye can labour lea.
I fee`d a man at Michaelmas,
Wi` airle pennies three;
But a` the faut I had to him,
He could na labour lea,
O can ye labour lea, &c.
O clappin`s gude in Febarwar,
An` kissin`s sweet in May;
But my delight`s the ploughman lad,
That weel can labour lea,
O can ye labour lea, &c.
O kissin is the key o` luve,
And clappin` is the lock;
An` makin` o`s the best thing yet,
That e`er a young thing gat.
O can ye labour lea, &c.
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