If you'll be kind, you'll never find
That ought shall alter me, Jenny;
For ye're the mistress of my mind,
Whate'er you think of me, Jenny!

First when

your sweets enslaved my
Ye seem'd to favour me, Jenny;
But now, alas! you act a part
That speaks inconstancie, Jenny.
Inconstancie is sic a vice,

It's not befitting thee, Jenny;
It suits not with your virtue nice,
To carry sae to me, Jenny.

JENNY.

heart,

O, haud awa, bide awa,
Haud awa frae me, Donald!
Your heart is made ower large for ane-
It is not meet for me, Donald.
Some fickle mistress you may find
Will jilt as fast as thee, Donald;
To ilka swain she will prove kind,
And nae less kind to thee, Donald :

But I've a heart that's naething such;
'Tis fill'd wi' honestie, Donald.
I'll ne'er love mony; I'll love much;
I hate all levitie, Donald.

Therefore nae mair, wi' art, pretend

Your heart is chain'd to mine, Donald;

For words of falsehood ill defend

A roving love like thine, Donald.

First when you courted, I must own,
I frankly favour'd you, Donald;
Apparent worth and fair renown
Made me believe you true, Donald :
Ilk virtue then seem'd to adorn

The man esteem'd by me, Donald;
But now the mask's faun aff, I scorn
To ware a thocht on thee, Donald.

And now for ever haud awa,
Haud awa frae me, Donald!
Sae, seek a heart that's like your ain,
And come nae mair to me, Donald :
For I'll reserve mysell for ane,

For ane that's liker me, Donald.
If sic a ane I canna find,

I'll ne'er lo'e man, nor thee, Donald.

DONALD.

Then I'm the man, and fause report
Has only tauld a lie, Jenny;
To try thy truth, and make us sport,
The tale was raised by me, Jenny.

JENNY.

When this ye prove, and still can love,
Then come awa to me, Donald !
I'm weel content ne'er to repent

That I hae smiled on thee, Donald ! *

wwwww

HAUD AWA FRAE ME, DONALD.

TUNE-Donald.

O, WILL ye hae ta tartan plaid,
Or will ye hae ta ring, matam?
Or will ye hae ta kiss o' me?
And tat's a pretty ting, matam!
Haud awa, bide awa,

Haud awa frae me, Donald!
I'll neither kiss nor hae ta ring;
Nae tartan plaids for me, Donald !

O, see you not her ponny progues,
Her fecket-plaid, plue, creen, matam?
Her twa short hose, and her twa spoigs,
And shouder-pelt apeen,* matam?

From the Tea-Table Miscellany, 1724.

† Above.

Haud awa, bide awa,

Bide awa frae me, Donald!
Nae shouder-belts, nae trinkabouts,
Nae tartan hose for me, Donald !

Her can pe show a petter hough
Tan him tat wears ta croun, matam;
Hersell hae pistol and claymore,
To flie ta Lallant loon, matam.
Haud awa, haud awa,

Haud awa frae me, Donald!

For a' your houghs and warlike arms,
You're no a match for me, Donald.

Hersell hae a short coat pi pote,
No trail my feets at rin, matam ;
A cutty sark of good harn sheet,
My motter she pe spin, matam.
Haud awa, haud awa,

Haud awa frae me, Donald;
Gae hame and hap your naked houghs,
And fash nae mair wi' me, Donald.

Ye's ne'er pe pidden work a turn
At ony kind o' spin, matam;
But shug your lenno in a skull,

And tidel Highland sing, matam.
Haud awa, haud awa,

Haud awa frae me, Donald!

Your jogging sculls and Highland sang Will sound but harsh wi' me, Donald.

In ta morning, when him rise,

Ye's get fresh whey for tea, matam: Sweet milk and ream as much you please, Far sheeper tan Bohee, matam.

Haud awa, haud awa,

Haud awa frae me, Donald!

I winna quit my morning's tea

Your whey will ne'er agree, Donald.

Haper Gaelic ye'se pe learn,

And tat's ta ponny speak, matam ;

Ye'se get a sheese, and putter kirn:
Come wi' me kin ye like, matam.
Haud awa, haud awa,

Haud awa frae me, Donald!

Your Gaelic and your Highland cheer
Will ne'er gae down wi' me, Donald.

Fait, ye'se pe get a siller protch,
Pe pigger tan ta moon, matam;

Ye'se ride in currach * 'stead o' coach,
And wow put ye'll pe fine, matam.
Haud awa, haud awa,

Haud awa frae me, Donald!

For a' your Highland rarities,

Ye're no a match for me, Donald.

What 'tis ta way tat ye'll pe

kind

To a pretty man like me, matam!
Sae lang's claymore hangs py my side
I'll nefer marry tee, matam !
O, come awa, come awa,

Come awa wi' me, Donald!

I wadna quit my Highland man;

Frae Lawlands set me free, Donald!†

DAME, DO THE THING WHILK I
DESIRE.+

GET up, gudewife, don on your claise,
And to the market mak you boune:
'Tis lang time sin' your neebors rase;
They're weel nigh gotten into the toune.

* Boat.

From Herd's Collection, 1776. Ritson expresses a conjecture, that this is the song to which the name and the tune originally belonged; but as it did not appear in any collection till fifty years after the preceding song was published in the Tea-Table Miscellany, and as its language and humour evidently belong to a later age, I am tempted to think that the reverse was the case.

This curious old song, which seems to belong to the same class of humorous Scottish compositions with the " Barring o' the Door" and "Tak your auld Cloak about ye," is given by Ritson, in his Scotish Songs, 1794, from a manuscript of Charles the First's time, in the British Museum, (Bib. Sloan. 1189.)

See ye don on your better goune,
And gar the lasse big on the fyre.
Dame, do not look as ye wad frowne,
But doe the thing whilk I desyre.

I spier what haste ye hae, gudeman! Your mother staid till ye war born; be at the tother can,

Wad ye

To scoure your throat sae sune this morne?
Gude faith, I haud it but a scorne,

That

ye suld with my rising mell; *

For when ye have baith said and sworne, I'll do but what I like mysell.

Gudewife, we maun needs have a care,

Sae lang's we wonne in neebors' rawe, O' neeborheid to tak a share,

And rise up when the cocks does crawe;
For I have heard an auld said sawe,
"They that rise the last big on the fyre."
What wind or weather so ever blaw,
Dame, do the thing whilk I desyre.

Nay, what do ye talk of neeborheid?
Gif I lig in my bed till noone,
By nae man's shins I bake my breid,
And ye need not reck what I have done.
Nay, look to the clooting o' your shoone,
And with my rising do not mell;

For, gin ye lig baith sheets abune,
I'll do but what I will mysell.

Gudewife, ye maun needs tak a care

To save the geare that we hae won; Or lye away baith plow and car,

And hang up Ring† when a' is done. Then may our bairns a-begging run, To seek their mister ‡ in the myre.

Sae fair a thread as we hae won! Dame, do the thing whilk I require.

The dog.

* Meddle.
Supposed to signify money, or means of livelihood.