The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, We dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame- My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, Now life is a burden that bows me down, THE CARL OF KELLYBURN BRAES. THESE words are mine; I composed them from the old traditionary verses. There lived a carl on Kellyburn braes, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) And he had a wife was the plague o' his days; And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is in prime. Ae day as the carl gaed up the lang glen, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) He met wi' the devil; says, "How do yow fen?" And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is in prime. "I've got a bad wife, sir; that's a' my complaint; ހ Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) For, saving your presence, to her ye're a saint; And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is in prime." "It's neither your stot nor your staig I shall crave, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have, And the thyme it is wither'd and the rue is in prime." "O welcome, most kindly," the blythe carl said, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) But if ye can match her, ye're waur nor ye're ca'd, And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime." The devil has got the auld wife on his back; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) And, like a poor pedlar, he's carried his pack; And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime. He's carried her hame to his ain hallan-door; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) Syne bade her gae in, for a bitch and a whore, And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime. Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o' his band, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) Turn out on her gaurd in the clap of a hand; f And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime. The carlin gaed thro' them like ony wude bear, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) Whae'er she gat hands on came near her nae mair; And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime. A reekit wee devil looks over the wa'; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) O, help, master, help, or she'll ruin us a', And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime." The devil he swore by the edge o' his knife, And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime. The devil he swore by the kirk and the bell, (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) He was not in wedlock, thank heaven, but in hell; And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime. Then satan has travelled again wi' his pack; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) And to her auld husband he's carried her back; And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime. "I hae been a devil the feck o' my life; (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) But ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife; And the thyme it is wither'd, and the rue is in prime. I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR. THIS song is altered from a poem by Sir Robert Ayton, private secretary to Mary and Anne, queens of Scotland. The poem is to be found in James Watson's collection of Scots poems. I think that I have improved the simplicity of the sentiments, by giving them a Scots dress. I do confess thou art so fair, I wad 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 sae thriftless o' thy sweets, Thy favors are the silly wind That kisses ilka thing it meets. See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew, When pu'd and worn a common toy! |