Sic unco hacks, and deadly whacks, Lost hands and heads cost them their deads, That afternoon, when a' was done, MY NANIE, O. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. TUNE-My Nanie, O. RED rowes the Nith 'tween bank and brae, Though heaven and earth should mix in storm, I'll gang My Nanie, O, my Nanie, O! My kind and winsome Nanie, O! In preachin'-time, sae meek she stands, *From Herd's Collection, 1776. This was for a long time the only song regarding the Insurrection of 1745, which could be sung by either party without offence to the other. The author was a farmer near Haddington, and father to the late Mr Skirving, portrait-painter, of eccentric memory. There is a story told in connexion with the song, that proves the author to have been a man of great humour. The "Lieutenant Smith" of the ninth stanza thought proper, some time after, to send a friend to the honest farmer, requesting to have satisfaction for the injury which it had done to his honour. Skirving, who happened to be forking his dunghill at the moment the man arrived, first put that safe barrier between himself and the messenger, and then addressed him in these words: "Gang awa back to Mr Smith, and tell him that I hae na time to gang to Haddington to see him; but, if he likes to come here, I'll tak a look o' him; and if I think I'm fit to fecht him, I'll fecht him; and if no, I'll just do as he did-I'll rin awa!" I canna get ae glimpse o' grace, The warld's in love wi' Nanie, O! My breist can scarce conteen my heart, guess The flower o' Nithisdale's Nanie, O! Tell not, thou star at grey day-licht, Nane ken o' me and Nanie, O ! WE'RE A' NODDIN. TUNE-Nid noddin. O, WE'RE a' noddin, nid, nid, noddin, How's a' wi' ye, kimmer? and how do ye thrive? Grannie nods i' the neuk, and fends as she may, Vow! but she was bonnie; and vow! but she was braw, And she had rowth o' wooers ance, I'se warrant, great and sma'. And we're a' noddin, &c. Weary fa' Kate, that she winna nod too; And when the bit bairnies wad e'en hae their share, Now, fareweel, kimmer, and weel may ye thrive; They sae the French is rinnin' for't, and we'll hae peace belyve. The bear's i' the brear, and the hay's i' the stack, THERE was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, They ca'd him Duncan Davison: As ower the moor they lightly foor,* A burn ran clear, a glen was green; That Meg should be a bride the morn― * Went. And she took up her spinning graith, We'll big a house, a wee wee house, And aye be welcome back again. MY NATIVE CALEDONIA. SAIR, sair was my heart, when I parted frae my Jean, And sair, sair I sigh'd, while the tears stood in my een; For my daddie is but poor, and my fortune is but sma'; Which gars me leave my native Caledonia. When I think on days now gane, and how happy I hae been, While wandering wi' my dearie, where the primrose blaws unseen; I'm wae to leave my lassie, and my daddie's simple ha', Or the hills and healthfu' breeze o' Caledonia. But wherever I wander, still happy be my Jean! been! Then, though ills on ills befa' me, for her I'll bear them a', Though aft I'll heave a sigh for Caledonia. But should riches e'er be mine, and my Jeanie still be true, Then blaw, ye favourin' breezes, till my native land I view; Then I'll kneel on Scotia's shore, while the heart-felt tear shall fa', And never leave my Jean and Caledonia. SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST OF A'. BURNS. TUNE-Unagh's Lock. SAE flaxen were her ringlets, Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue. Wad mak a wretch forget his woe; Unto those rosy lips to grow! Like harmony her motion; Her pretty ankle is a spy, Wad mak a saint forget the sky. Her faultless form and gracefu' air; Declared that she could do nae mair. By conquering beauty's sovereign law; Let others love the city, And gaudy show at sunny noon; Gie me the lonely valley, The dewy eve, and rising moon, Fair-beaming, and streaming, Her silver light the boughs amang; While falling, recalling, The amorous thrush concludes her sang; There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove |