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And the barrin' o' our door weil, weil, weil,
The wind blew cauld frae south to north,
It blew into the floor;
And the barrin', &c.
My hand is in my hussyfe skep,
Gudeman, as ye may see;
It's no be barr'd for me.
They made a paction 'tween them twa,
They made it firm and sure,
Should rise and bar the door.
Then by there came twa gentlemen,
At twelve o'clock at nicht;
Nor coal nor candle-licht.
Now whether is this a rich man's house,
Or whether is this a puir ?
For the barrin' o' the door.
And first they ate the white puddins,
And syne they ate the black;
But never a word she spak.
Then said the tane unto the tother,
Hae, man, take ye my knife,
And I'll kiss the gudewife.
But there's nae water in the house,
And what shall we do than?
That boils into the pan ?
O, up then startit our gudeman,
And an angry man was he:
And scaud me wi' puddin' bree?
and startit our gudewife,
Get up and bar the door.*
THE WEEL-TOCHER'D LASS.
TUNE-Kirk wad let me be.
I was once a weel-tocher'd lass,
My mither left dollars to me;
My step-dame has gart them flee.
And she plays the deil with his gear ;
And keeps the baill house in a steer.
She's barmy-faced, thriftless, and bauld,
And gars me aft fret and repine ;
I see her destroy what's mine. * From Herd's Collection, 1776. Tradition, as reported in Johnson's Musical Museum, affirms that the “gudeman" of this song was a person of the name of John Blunt, who lived of yore in Crawford Muir. There are two tunes to which it is often sung. One of them is in most of the Collections of Scottish Tunes; the other, though to appearance equally ancient, seems to have been preserved by tradition alone, as we have never seen it in print. A third tune, to which we have heard this song sung, by only one person, an American student, we suspect to have been imported from his own country.
But soon I might hope a revenge,
And soon of my sorrows be free ; My poortith to plenty wad change,
If she were hung up on a tree. :
Quoth Ringan, wha lang time had loo'd
This bonny lass tenderlie, I'll tak’ thee, sweet may, in thy snood, Gif thou wilt
hame with me. 'Tis only yoursell that I want;
Your kindness is better to me Than a' that your stepmother, scant
Of grace, now has taken frae thee,
I'm but a young farmer, it's true,
And ye are the sprout of a laird ; But I have milk-cattle enow,
And routh of good rucks in my yard. Ye shall have naething to fash ye,
Sax servants shall jouk to thee : Then kilt up thy coats, my lassie,
And gae thy ways hame with me. The maiden her reason employ’d,
Not thinking the offer amiss, Consented, while Ringan, o'erjoy'd,
Received her with mony a kiss. And now she sits blithely singin',
And joking her drunken stepdame, Delighted with her dear Ringan,
That makes her goodwife at hame.*
* From the Tea-Table Miscellany, 1724.
THE HUMBLE BEGGAR.
TUNE—The Humble Beggar.
He had neither house, nor hauld, nor hame ;
him sunkets to raux his wame. A neivefou o meal, a handfou o' groats,
A daud o' a bannock, or padding-bree, Cauld parridge, or the lickings of plates,
Wad make him as blythe as a bodie could be.
A humbler bodie, O, never brake bread,
For the fient a bit o' pride had he; He wad hae ta’en his alms in a bicker,
Frae gentle, or semple, or poor bodie.
In as good order as wallets could be.
And a muckle nowte-horn to rout on had he.
It happen'd ill, and it happen'd warse,
For it happen'd sae that he did die; And wha wad ye think were at his lyke-wauk,
But lads and lasses of high degree. Some were merry, and some were sad,
And some were as blythe as blythe could be; When
up he started, the gruesome carle I rede ye, good folks, beware o' me!
Out scraich'd Kate, who sat in the nook,
Vow, now, kimmer! and how do ye ? He ca'd her waur than witch and limmer,
And ruggit and tuggit her cockernonie. They howkit his grave in Douket's kirkyard,
Twa ell deep-for I gaed to see But when they were gaun to put him in the yird,
The fient a dead nor dead was he.
They brought him down to Douket's kirkyard;
He gae a dunt, and the boords did flee; And when they gaed to lay him in the grave,
In fell the coffin, and out lap he! He cried, I'm cauld I I'm unco cauld I
Fu’ fast ran they, and fu’ fast ran he; But he was first hame at his ain ingle-side,
And he help'd to drink his ain dredgie.*
THE RIGS O' BARLEY.
When corn-rigs are bonnie,
I held awa to Annie.
'Till, 'tween the late and early,
To see me through the barley.
The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The moon was shining clearly ;
Amang the rigs o' barley.
I loved her most sincerely ;
Amang the rigs o' barley.
I lock'd her in
fond embrace ! Her heart was beating rarely
* First published in Herd's Collection, but certainly much more ancient. I have heard it sung by old people who were not likely to have seen Herd's Collection.