SYMON AND JANET.*

ANDREW SCOTT.

SURROUNDED wi' bent and wi' heather,
Where muircocks and plovers were rife,
For mony a lang towmond together,

There lived an auld man and his wife:
About the affairs o' the nation

The twasome they seldom were mute;
Bonaparte, the French, and invasion,
Did sa'ur in their wizzins like soot.

In winter, whan deep were the gutters,
And nicht's gloomy canopy spread,
Auld Symon sat luntin' his cuttie,
And lowsin' his buttons for bed;
Auld Janet, his wife, out a-gazing,
To lock in the door was her care;
She, seeing our signals a-blazing,
Came rinnin' in ryvin' her hair:

O, Symon, the Frenchies are landit!
Gae look, man, and slip on your

Our signals I see them extendit,

shoon ;

Like red risin' rays frae the moon.

What a plague! the French landit! quo Symon, And clash gaed his pipe to the wa':

Faith, then, there's be loadin' and primin',

Quo he, if they're landit ava.

Our youngest son's in the militia,

Our eldest grandson's volunteer:

*The author of this clever and lively song, which was occasioned by the false alarm of invasion, in 1803, at this day fills the humble office of bedlar in the parish of Bowden, Roxburghshire.

O' the French to be fu' o the flesh o',
I too i' the ranks shall appear.
His waistcoat-pouch fill'd he wi' pouther,
And bang'd down his rusty auld
His bullets he pat in the other,
That he for the purpose had run.

gun;

Then humpled he out in a hurry,
While Janet his courage bewails,
And cried out, Dear Symon, be wary!
And teuchly she hung by his tails.
Let be wi' your kindness, cried Symon,
Nor vex me wi' tears and your cares;
For, now to be ruled by a woman,

Nae laurels shall crown my grey hairs.

Then hear me, quo Janet, I pray thee, I'll tend thee, love, livin' or deed, And if thou should fa', I'll dee wi' thee, Or tie up thy wounds if thou bleed. Quo Janet, O, keep frae the riot!

Last nicht, man, I dreamt ye was deid;

This aught days I tentit a pyot

Sit chatt'rin' upon the house-heid.

As yesterday, workin' my stockin',
And you wi' the sheep on the hill,
A muckle black corbie sat croaking;
I kend it forebodit some ill.

Hout, cheer up, dear Janet, be hearty;
For, ere the neist sun may gae down,
Wha kens but I'll shoot Bonaparte,
And end my auld days in renown.

Syne off in a hurry he stumpled,
Wi' bullets, and pouther, and gun;

At's curpin auld Janet, too, humpled
Awa to the neist neebour-toun:
There footmen and yeomen paradin',

To scour off in dirdum were seen;
And wives and young lasses a' sheddin'
The briny saut tears frae their een.

Then aff wi' his bonnet got Symie,
And to the commander he gaes,
Quo he, sir, I mean to gae wi' ye,

And help ye to lounder our faes:
I'm auld, yet I'm teuch as the wire,
Sae we'll at the rogues hae a dash,
And fegs, if my gun winna fire,

I'll turn her but-end and I'll thrash.

Well spoken, my hearty old hero!
The captain did smilin' reply;
But begg'd he wad stay till to-morrow,
Till day-licht should glent in the sky.
What reck, a' the stoure cam' to naething;
Sae Symon, and Janet his dame,

Halescart, frae the wars, without skaithing,
Gaed, bannin the French, away hame.

SPEAK ON, SPEAK THUS.*

RAMSAY.

TUNE-Wae's my heart that we should sunder.

SPEAK on, speak thus, and still my grief:
Hold up a heart that's sinkin' under
These fears, that soon will want relief,

When Pate must from his Peggie sunder.

*From the Gentle Shepherd. In this song Ramsay displays a degree of scntiment which he has nowhere else reached or attempted.

A gentler face, and silk attire,
A lady rich in beauty's blossom,
Alake, poor me, will now conspire

To steal thee from thy Peggie's bosom.

No more the shepherd, who excell'd

The rest, whose wit made them to wonder, Shall now his Peggie's praises tell;

Oh! I can die, but never sunder. Ye meadows, where we often stray'd,

Ye banks, where we were wont to wander, Sweet-scented rocks, round which we play'd, You'll lose your sweets when we're asunder.

Again, ah, shall I never creep

Around the knowe, with silent duty, Kindly to watch thee while asleep,

And wonder at thy manly beauty? Hear, Heaven, while solemnly I vow, Though thou shouldst prove a wand'ring lover, Through life to thee I shall prove true, Nor be a wife to any other.

MY JO JANET.

TUNE-My Jo Janet.

SWEET sir, for your courtesie,
When ye come by the Bass, then,
For the love ye bear to me,

Buy me a keekin' glass, then.
Keek into the draw-well,

Janet, Janet;

There ye'll see your bonnie sell,
My jo Janet.

Keekin' in the draw-well clear,
What if I fa' in, sir?

Then a' my kin will say and swear
I droun'd mysell for sin, sir.
Haud the better by the brae,
Janet, Janet;

Haud the better by the brae,
My jo Janet.

Gude sir, for your courtesie,
Comin' through Aberdeen, then,
For the love ye bear to me,
Buy me a pair o' sheen, then.
Clout the auld-the new are dear,
Janet, Janet;

Ae pair may gain ye hauf a year,
My jo Janet.

But, if, dancin' on the green,
And skippin' like a maukin,
They should see my clouted sheen,
Of me they will be taukin'.
Dance aye laigh and late at e'en,
Janet, Janet ;

Syne their fauts will no be seen,
My jo Janet.

Kind sir, for your courtesie,

When ye gae to the Cross, then,

For the love ye bear to me,
Buy me a pacin' horse, then.
Pace upon your spinnin' wheel,
Janet, Janet;

Pace upon your spinnin' wheel,
My jo Janet.

My spinnin' wheel is auld and stiff,
The rock o't winna stand, sir;