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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 her ;
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 Kingborn,
Call up your muses, let them mourn
Our ewie wi' the crookit horn,

Frae us stown, and fell’d and a'!

MEG O' THE MILL.

BURNS.

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 ?

She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller,
And broken the heart o' the barley miller.

The miller was strappin', the miller was ruddy;
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady:
The laird was a wuddiefu' bleerit knurl;
She's left the guid fallow, and ta'en the churl.

The miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving :
The laird did address her wi' matter mair moving ;
A fine pacing-horse wi' a clear-chain'd bridle,
A whip by her side, and a bonny side-saddle.

O wae on the siller, it's sae prevailing ;
And wae on the love that's fix'd on a mailin'!
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle.
But, Gie me my love, and a fig for the warl!

THE WHIGS O' FIFE.

TUNE_The Whigs o' Fife.

O WAE to a' the Whigs o' Fife,

The brosy tykes, the lousy tykes,
O wae to a' the Whigs o' Fife,

That e'er they cam frae hell I

There's gentle John, and Jock the slorp,
And skellied Jock, and bellied Jock,
And curly Jock, and burly Jock,

And lying Jock himsell.

Deil claw the traitors wi' a flail,
That took the middens for their bail,
And kiss'd the cow ahint the tail,

That keaved at kings themsell.

At sic a sty o' stinking crew
The fiends themselves were like to spew;
They held their nose, and crook'd their mou',

And doughtna bide the smell.

But gin I saw his face again,
Thae hounds hae hunted ower the plain,
Then ilka ane should get his ain,

And ilka Whig the mell.

O for a bauk as lang as Crail,
And for a rape

o'
rapes

the wale,
To hing the tykes up by the tail,

And hear the beggars yell!

O wae to a' the Whigs o' Fife,

The brosy tykes, the lousy tykes,
O wae to a' the Whigs o' Fife,

That e'er they cam frae hell 1*

O LICHT IS THE HEART AND THE EE.

LAING.

TUNE-I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane.

O Licht is the heart and the ee,

When the laddie we loe is our ain;
And licht is the toil o' the day,

When trysted to meet him at e'en :
And sweet is the smile o' the sun,

When lichting the landscape anew;
But sweeter the blink o' the mune,

When lichtin' our lover in view.

From the Scottish Minstrel, a collection of united songs and airs, by Mr R. A. Smith, 6 vols. 1823-8.

Yestreen, by the howe in the vale,

My laddie was waitin' on me; Though fond as my laddie himsell,

Yet waitin' I wish'd him to be. He pu'd me low down on his knee,

His arms he around me did twine ; And press'd at my hand for a wee, And lean'd his warm cheek

upon

mine.

Dear lassie, he whisper'd, now we

Hae stown this moment our lane; But had we the Martinmas fee,

We'll e'en hae a house o' our ain. Though we hae nae gowd to gae through,

We hae wbat the gowd canna buy; He gied me a kiss o' his mou',

And tell’d me the lave in a sigh.

My bosom a' lowin' wi' love,

I sigh'd and said naething ava; And O that sweet nicht was above

The sweetest that ever did fa'! And sae will I lovingly strive

To follow his wishes wi' mine, That yet, when in years we arrive,

He'll think wi' delight on yestreen.

THE CYPRESS WREATH.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

O LADY, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree;
Too lively glow the lilies light,
The varnish'd holly's all too bright;

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