OH, ARE YE SLEEPIN', MAGGIE?

TANNAHILL.

TUNE-Sleepy Maggie.

O, ARE ye sleepin', Maggie?
O, are ye sleepin', Maggie?
Let me in, for loud the linn

Is roarin' o'er the warlock craigie !

Mirk and rainy is the night;
No a starn in a' the carie;
Lightnings gleam athwart the lift,

And winds drive on wi' winter's fury.

Fearfu' soughs the boor-tree bank;

The rifted wood roars wild and drearie;

Loud the iron yett does clank;

And cry o' howlets maks me eerie.

Aboon my breath I daurna speak,
For fear I raise your waukrife daddy;
Cauld's the blast upon my
cheek;

O rise, rise, my bonny lady!

nity of printing the effusions of a rustic muse. It fell to the lot of Mr She riff to afford him this opportunity. The Aberdeenshire poet was one of the very first of those individuals who were encouraged by the success of Burns to attempt similar poetical publications. Mr, the printer, agreed, without a moment's hesitation, to undertake the risk of putting his lucubrations into the shape of a book. An enormous edition was printed in two duodecimo volumes. The work was published; but, alas for the calculations of the publisher, although the poetry possessed a very respectable degree of merit, and seemed to be exactly of the same sort with that of the Ayrshire bard, a tithe of it did not sell. The lucky moment and the lucky man were lost; and Mr - in addition to his former negative misfortune, had now to regret one of a positive nature, and which was ten times harder to bear.

This anecdote, the poetical justice of which is very striking, may be de pended on as true, being derived from the memory of a respectable printer, who was in Mr- -'s employment at the time when the whole circumstances took place.

1

She oped the door; she let him in;
He cuist aside his dreepin' plaidie;
Blaw your warst, ye wind and rain,
Since, Maggie, now I'm in beside ye!

Now, since ye're waukin', Maggie,
Now, since ye're waukin', Maggie,
What care I for howlet's cry,

For boor-tree bank and warlock craggie!

WE'LL MEET BESIDE THE DUSKY

GLEN.

TANNAHILL.

TUNE-There grows a bonnie Brier Bush.

WE'LL meet beside the dusky glen on yon burn-side,
Where the bushes form a cozie den, on yon

Though the broomy knowes be green,
Yet there we may be seen;

burn-side:

But we'll meet-we'll meet at e'en, down by yon burnside.

I'll lead thee to the birken bower on yon burn-side, Sae sweitly wove wi' woodbine flower, on yon burn

side:

There the busy prying eye

Ne'er disturbs the lover's joy,

While in other's arms they lie, down by yon burn-side.

Awa, ye rude unfeelin' crew, frae yon burn-side! Those fairy scenes are no for you, by yon burn-side:

There fancy smooths her theme,
By the sweetly murmurin' stream,

And the rock-lodged echoes skim, down by yon burn

side.

Now the plantin' taps are tinged wi' gowd on yon burn-side,

And gloamin' draws her foggie shroud o'er yon burnside:

Far frae the noisy scene,

I'll through the fields alane;

There we'll meet, my ain dear Jean! down by yon burn-side.

LUCKY NANSY.

MODERNISED BY LORD PRESIDENT FORBES.

TUNE-Dainty Davie.

WHILE fops, in saft Italian verse,
Ilk fair ane's een and breist rehearse;
While sangs abound, and wit is scarce,
These lines I have indited:

But neither darts nor arrows, here,
Venus nor Cupid, shall appear;
Although with these fine sounds, I swear,
The maidens are delighted.

I was aye telling you,

Lucky Nansy, Lucky Nansy,
Auld springs wad ding the new,
But ye wad never trow me.

Nor snaw with crimson will I mix,
To spread upon my lassie's cheeks;
And syne the unmeaning name prefix,
Miranda, Cloe, Phillis;

I'll fetch nae simile frae Jove,
My height of ecstasy to prove,
Nor sighing-thus-present my love
With roses eke and lilies.

But, stay-I had amaist forgot
My mistress, and my sang to boot,
And that's an unco faut, I wot;
But, Nansy, 'tis nae matter:
Ye see I clink my verse wi' rhyme,
And ken ye that atones the crime;
Forbye, how sweet my numbers chime,
And glide away like water!

Now ken, my reverend sonsy fair,
Thy runkled cheeks, and lyart hair,
Thy half-shut een, and hoddling air,
Are a' my passion's fuel;

Nae skyring gowk, my dear, can see,
Or love, or grace, or heaven in thee;
Yet thou hast charms enew for me;
Then smile, and be na cruel.
Leeze me on thy snawy pow,
Lucky Nansy, Lucky Nansy;
Dryest wood will eithest low,
And, Nansy, sae will ye now.

Troth, I have

sung the sang to you,
Which ne'er anither bard wad do;
Hear, then, my charitable vow,
Dear venerable Nansy:

But, if the world my passion wrang,
And say ye only live in sang,
Ken, I despise a slandering tongue,
And sing to please my fancy.
Leeze me on, &c.'

From the Tea-Table Miscellany, 1724.

OLD KING COUL.

OLD King Coul was a jolly old soul,
And a jolly old soul was he;

And old King Coul he had a brown bowl,
And they brought him in fiddlers three;
And every fiddler was a very good fiddler,
And a very good fiddler was he:
Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers three :
And there's no a lass in a' Scotland,
Compared to our sweet Marjorie.

Old King Coul was a jolly old soul,
And a jolly old soul was he;

Old King Coul, he had a brown bowl,
And they brought him in pipers three:
Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, how-diddle, went the
pipers three;

Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers three:
And there's no a lass in a' the land,
Compared to our sweet Marjorie.

Old King Coul was a jolly old soul,
And a jolly old soul was he;

Old King Coul, he had a brown bowl,
And they brought him in harpers three:
Twingle-twangle, twingle-twangle, went the harpers;
Ha-diddle, how-diddle, ha-diddle, how-diddle, went the
pipers;

Fiddle-diddle, fiddle-diddle, went the fiddlers three:
And there's no a lass in a' the land,
Compared to our sweet Marjorie.

Old King Coul was a jolly old soul,
And a jolly old soul was he;

Old King Coul, he had a brown bowl,
And they brought him in trumpeters three: