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Part XLIPart XLI
Part XLI
The Deuks Dang O`er My Daddie
The bairns gat out wi` an unco shout,
The deuks dang o`er my daddie, O!
The fien-ma-care, quo` the feirrie auld wife,
He was but a paidlin` body, O!
He paidles out, and he paidles in,
rn` he paidles late and early, O!
This seven lang years I hae lien by his side,
An` he is but a fusionless carlie, O.
O haud your tongue, my feirrie auld wife,
O haud your tongue, now Nansie, O:
I`ve seen the day, and sae hae ye,
Ye wad na ben sae donsie, O.
I`ve seen the day ye butter`d my brose,
And cuddl`d me late and early, O;
But downa-do`s come o`er me now,
And oh, I find it sairly, O!
The Deil`s Awa Wi` The Exciseman
The deil cam fiddlin` thro` the town,
And danc`d awa wi` th` Exciseman,
And ilka wife cries, "Auld Mahoun,
I wish you luck o` the prize, man."
Chorus-The deil`s awa, the deil`s awa,
The deil`s awa wi` the Exciseman,
He`s danc`d awa, he`s danc`d awa,
He`s danc`d awa wi` the Exciseman.
We`ll mak our maut, and we`ll brew our drink,
We`ll laugh, sing, and rejoice, man,
And mony braw thanks to the meikle black deil,
That danc`d awa wi` th` Exciseman.
The deil`s awa, &c.
There`s threesome reels, there`s foursome reels,
There`s hornpipes and strathspeys, man,
But the ae best dance ere came to the land
Was-the deil`s awa wi` the Exciseman.
The deil`s awa, &c.
The Country Lass
In simmer, when the hay was mawn,
And corn wav`d green in ilka field,
While claver blooms white o`er the lea
And roses blaw in ilka beild!
Blythe Bessie in the milking shiel,
Says-"I`ll be wed, come o`t what will":
Out spake a dame in wrinkled eild;
"O` gude advisement comes nae ill.
"It`s ye hae wooers mony ane,
And lassie, ye`re but young ye ken;
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale
A routhie butt, a routhie ben;
There`s Johnie o` the Buskie-glen,
Fu` is his barn, fu` is his byre;
Take this frae me, my bonie hen,
It`s plenty beets the luver`s fire."
"For Johnie o` the Buskie-glen,
I dinna care a single flie;
He lo`es sae weel his craps and kye,
He has nae love to spare for me;
But blythe`s the blink o` Robie`s e`e,
And weel I wat he lo`es me dear:
Ae blink o` him I wad na gie
For Buskie-glen and a` his gear."
"O thoughtless lassie, life`s a faught;
The canniest gate, the strife is sair;
But aye fu`-han`t is fechtin` best,
A hungry care`s an unco care:
But some will spend and some will spare,
An` wilfu` folk maun hae their will;
Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair,
Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill."
"O gear will buy me rigs o` land,
And gear will buy me sheep and kye;
But the tender heart o` leesome love,
The gowd and siller canna buy;
We may be poor-Robie and I-
Light is the burden love lays on;
Content and love brings peace and joy-
What mair hae Queens upon a throne?"
Bessy And Her Spinnin` Wheel
O Leeze me on my spinnin` wheel,
And leeze me on my rock and reel;
Frae tap to tae that cleeds me bien,
And haps me biel and warm at e`en;
I`ll set me down and sing and spin,
While laigh descends the simmer sun,
Blest wi` content, and milk and meal,
O leeze me on my spinnin` wheel.
On ilka hand the burnies trot,
And meet below my theekit cot;
The scented birk and hawthorn white,
Across the pool their arms unite,
Alike to screen the birdie`s nest,
And little fishes` caller rest;
The sun blinks kindly in the beil`,
Where blythe I turn my spinnin` wheel.
On lofty aiks the cushats wail,
And Echo cons the doolfu` tale;
The lintwhites in the hazel braes,
Delighted, rival ither`s lays;
The craik amang the claver hay,
The pairtrick whirring o`er the ley,
The swallow jinkin` round my shiel,
Amuse me at my spinnin` wheel.
Wi` sma` to sell, and less to buy,
Aboon distress, below envy,
O wha wad leave this humble state,
For a` the pride of a` the great?
Amid their flairing, idle toys,
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys,
Can they the peace and pleasure feel
Of Bessy at her spinnin` wheel?
Love For Love
Ithers seek they ken na what,
Features, carriage, and a` that;
Gie me love in her I court,
Love to love maks a` the sport.
Let love sparkle in her e`e;
Let her lo`e nae man but me;
That`s the tocher-gude I prize,
There the luver`s treasure lies.
Saw Ye Bonie Lesley
O saw ye bonie Lesley,
As she gaed o`er the Border?
She`s gane, like Alexander,
To spread her conquests farther.
To see her is to love her,
And love but her for ever;
For Nature made her what she is,
And never made anither!
Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
Thy subjects, we before thee;
Thou art divine, fair Lesley,
The hearts o` men adore thee.
The deil he could na scaith thee,
Or aught that wad belang thee;
He`d look into thy bonie face,
And say-"I canna wrang thee!"
The Powers aboon will tent thee,
Misfortune sha`na steer thee;
Thou`rt like themselves sae lovely,
That ill they`ll ne`er let near thee.
Return again, fair Lesley,
Return to Caledonie!
That we may brag we hae a lass
There`s nane again sae bonie.
Fragment Of Song
No cold approach, no altered mien,
Just what would make suspicion start;
No pause the dire extremes between,
He made me blest-and broke my heart.
I`ll Meet Thee On The Lea Rig
When o`er the hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin time is near, my jo,
And owsen frae the furrow`d field
Return sae dowf and weary O;
Down by the burn, where birken buds
Wi` dew are hangin clear, my jo,
I`ll meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind Dearie O.
At midnight hour, in mirkest glen,
I`d rove, and ne`er be eerie, O,
If thro` that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind Dearie O;
Altho` the night were ne`er sae wild,
And I were ne`er sae weary O,
I`ll meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind Dearie O.
The hunter lo`es the morning sun;
To rouse the mountain deer, my jo;
At noon the fisher seeks the glen
Adown the burn to steer, my jo:
Gie me the hour o` gloamin` grey,
It maks my heart sae cheery O,
To meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind Dearie O.
My Wife`s A Winsome Wee Thing
Air-"My Wife`s a Wanton Wee Thing."
Chorus.-She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a lo`esome wee thing,
This dear wee wife o` mine.
I never saw a fairer,
I never lo`ed a dearer,
And neist my heart I`ll wear her,
For fear my jewel tine,
She is a winsome, &c.
The warld`s wrack we share o`t;
The warstle and the care o`t;
Wi` her I`ll blythely bear it,
And think my lot divine.
She is a winsome, &c.
Highland Mary
tune-"Katherine Ogie."
Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o` Montgomery!
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie:
There Simmer first unfauld her robes,
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last Farewell
O` my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloom`d the gay, green birk,
How rich the hawthorn`s blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade,
I clasp`d her to my bosom!
The golden Hours on angel wings,
Flew o`er me and my Dearie;
For dear to me, as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi` mony a vow, and lock`d embrace,
Our parting was fu` tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;
But oh! fell Death`s untimely frost,
That nipt my Flower sae early!
Now green`s the sod, and cauld`s the clay
That wraps my Highland Mary!
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kiss`d sae fondly!
And clos`d for aye, the sparkling glance
That dwalt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust,
That heart that lo`ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom`s core
Shall live my Highland Mary.
Auld Rob Morris
There`s Auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
He`s the King o` gude fellows, and wale o` auld men;
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,
And ae bonie lass, his dautie and mine.
She`s fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
She`s sweet as the ev`ning amang the new hay;
As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my e`e.
But oh! she`s an Heiress, auld Robin`s a laird,
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.
The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane;
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.
O had she but been of a lower degree,
I then might hae hop`d she wad smil`d upon me!
O how past descriving had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction nae words can express.
The Rights Of Woman
An Occasional Address.
Spoken by Miss Fontenelle on her benefit night, November 26, 1792.
While Europe`s eye is fix`d on mighty things,
The fate of Empires and the fall of Kings;
While quacks of State must each produce his plan,
And even children lisp the Rights of Man;
Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention,
The Rights of Woman merit some attention.
First, in the Sexes` intermix`d connection,
One sacred Right of Woman is, protection. -
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate,
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of Fate,
Sunk on the earth, defac`d its lovely form,
Unless your shelter ward th` impending storm.
Our second Right-but needless here is caution,
To keep that right inviolate`s the fashion;
Each man of sense has it so full before him,
He`d die before he`d wrong it-`tis decorum. -
There was, indeed, in far less polish`d days,
A time, when rough rude man had naughty ways,
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot,
Nay even thus invade a Lady`s quiet.
Now, thank our stars! those Gothic times are fled;
Now, well-bred men-and you are all well-bred-
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers)
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners.
For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest,
That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest;
Which even the Rights of Kings, in low prostration,
Most humbly own-`tis dear, dear admiration!
In that blest sphere alone we live and move;
There taste that life of life-immortal love.
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs;
`Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares,
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms-
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms?
But truce with kings, and truce with constitutions,
With bloody armaments and revolutions;
Let Majesty your first attention summon,
Ah! ca ira! The Majesty Of Woman!
Epigram On Seeing Miss Fontenelle In A Favourite Character
Sweet naivete of feature,
Simple, wild, enchanting elf,
Not to thee, but thanks to Nature,
Thou art acting but thyself.
Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected,
Spurning Nature, torturing art;
Loves and Graces all rejected,
Then indeed thou`d`st act a part.
Extempore On Some Commemorations Of Thomson
Dost thou not rise, indignant shade,
And smile wi` spurning scorn,
When they wha wad hae starved thy life,
Thy senseless turf adorn?
Helpless, alane, thou clamb the brae,
Wi` meikle honest toil,
And claught th` unfading garland there-
Thy sair-worn, rightful spoil.
And wear it thou! and call aloud
This axiom undoubted-
Would thou hae Nobles` patronage?
First learn to live without it!
To whom hae much, more shall be given,
Is every Great man`s faith;
But he, the helpless, needful wretch,
Shall lose the mite he hath.
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