It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree
It's a for the hinnie he'll cherish the bee;
My laddie is sae in luve wi' the siller,
He canna hae love to spare for me.
Your proffer o' luve's an airle-penny;
My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy:
But an ye be crafty, I am cunning;
Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try.
Ye're like the timmer o' yon rotten wood;
Ye're like the bark o' yon rotten tree;
Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread;
And you'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me.
FAREWELL TO BONNIE TEVIOTDALE.
THOMAS PRINGLE.
OUR native land, our native vale,
A long, a last adieu !
Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale,
And Cheviot's mountains blue!
Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,
Ye streams renown'd in song!
Farewell, ye braes and blossom'd meads,
Our hearts have loved so long!
Farewell, the blythesome broomy knowes,
Where thyme and harebells grow!
Farewell, the hoary, haunted howes,
O'erhung with birk and sloe!
The mossy cave, and mouldering tower,
That skirt our native dell;
The martyr's grave, and lover's bower,
We bid a sad farewell!
Home of our love! our fathers' home!
Land of the brave and free!
The sail is flapping on the foam,
That bears us far from thee!
We seek a wild and distant shore,
Beyond the western main:
We leave thee to return no more,
Nor view thy cliffs again!
Our native land, our native vale
A long, a last adieu !
Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale,
And Scotland's mountains blue !
Oн, open the door, some pity show,
Oh, open the door to me, oh!
Though thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true,
Oh, open the door to me, oh!
Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek,
But caulder thy love for me, oh!
The frost that freezes the life at my heart,
Is nought to my pains frae thee, oh!
The wan moon is setting behind the white wave,
And time is setting with me, oh!
*Or rather, only mended by Burns.
False friends, false love, farewell! for mair
I'll ne'er trouble them nor thee, oh!
She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide, She sees his pale corse on the plain, oh!
My true love, she cried, and sunk down by his side, Never to rise again, oh!
THE EWIE WI' THE CROOKIT HORN.
TUNE-The ewie wi' the crookit horn.
O, were I able to rehearse,
My ewie's praise in proper verse,
I'd sound it out as loud and fierce
As ever piper's drone could blaw.
My ewie wi' the crookit horn!
A' that kenn'd her would hae sworn,
Sic a ewie ne'er was born,
Hereabouts nor far awa'.
She neither needed tar nor keel,
To mark her upon hip or heel;
Her crookit hornie did as weel,
To ken her by amang them a'.
She never threaten'd scab nor rot,
But keepit aye her ain jog-trot;
Baith to the fauld and to the cot,
Was never sweir to lead nor ca'.
A better nor a thriftier beast,
Nae honest man need e'er hae wish'd;
For, silly thing, she never miss'd
To hae ilk year a lamb or twa.
The first she had I gae to Jock,
To be to him a kind o' stock;
And now, the laddie has a flock
Of mair than thretty head and twa.
The neist I gae to Jean; and now
The bairn's sae braw, has faulds sae fu',
That lads sae thick come her to woo,
They're fain to sleep on hay or straw.
Cauld nor hunger never dang her,
Wind or rain could never wrang
Ance she lay an ouk and langer
Forth aneath a wreath o' snaw.
When other ewies lap the dyke,
And ate the kale for a' the tyke,
My ewie never play'd the like,
But teesed about the barn wa'.
I lookit aye at even for her,
Lest mishanter should come ower her,
Or the fuimart micht devour her,
Gin the beastie bade awa.
Yet, last ouk, for a' my keeping,
(Wha can tell o't without greeting?)
À villain cam, when I was sleeping,
Staw my ewie, horn and a'.
I socht her sair upon the morn,
And down aneath a bush o' thorn,
There I fand her crookit horn,
But my ewie was awa.
But gin I had the loon that did it,
I hae sworn as weel as said it,
Although the laird himsell forbid it,
I sall gie his neck a thraw.
I never met wi' sic a turn:
At e'en I had baith ewe and horn,
Safe steekit up; but, 'gain the morn,
Baith ewe and horn were stown awa.
A' the claes that we hae worn,
Frae her and hers sae aft was shorn;
The loss o' her we could hae borne,
Had fair-strae death ta'en her awa.
O, had she died o' croup or cauld,
As ewies die when they grow auld,
It hadna been, by mony fauld,
Sae sair a heart to ane o' us a'.
But thus, puir thing, to lose her life,
Beneath a bluidy villain's knife;
In troth, I fear that our gudewife
Will never get abune 't ava.
O, all ye bards benorth Kinghorn,
Call up your muses, let them mourn
Our ewie wi' the crookit horn,
Frae us stown, and fell'd and a'!
TUNE-O bonnie lass, will you lie in a barrack.
O, KEN ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten, An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten?
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