Sae merrily round the ring they row'd, And wasna Willy a great lown, As shyre a lick as e'er was seen? With bobbing, faith, my shanks are sair; Then rest ye, Willy, I'll gae out, Bridegroom, she says, you'll spoil the dance, William Walkinshaw. THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE. And are you sure the news is true? And are you sure he's weel? Is this a time to talk of wark? Mak haste, lay by your wheel! Is this the time to spin a thread For there's nae luck about the house, There's little pleasure in the house, And gie to me my bigonet, My bishop-satin gown; For I maun tell the bailie's wife My Sunday's shoon they maun gae on, Its a' to please my ain gudeman, Rise up and mak a clean fire-side, Gie little Kate her cotton gown, Its a' to pleasure my gudeman, He likes to see them braw. There's twa fat hens upon the bauk And spread the table neat and clean, Gar ilka thing look braw, For wha can tell how Colin fared, When he was far awa Ah! there's nae, &c. Sae true's his word, sae smooth's his speech His breath like cauler air, His very foot has music in't If Colin's weel, I'm weel content, And shall I see his face again, The cauld blasts of the winter wind, The present moment is our ain, The neist we never saw. For there's nae, &c. THE TOOM MEAL POCK. Preserve us a'! what shall we do, For ilka chiel maun mourn wi' me, O'a binging toom meal pock. And sing, Ob waes me! Jean Adam. When lasses braw gaed out at e'en, The moments quick did flee. And sing, Oh waes me! How happy past my former days, And sing, Oh waes me! Speak no ae word about reform, I'm sure ye'll gie consent- As a sample o' the flock, Whase hollow cheeks will be sure proof, O'a hinging toom meal pock. And sing, Oh waes me! And should a sicht sae ghastly like, O what a contrast will ye shaw, To the glowrin Lunnun folk, When in St. James' ye tak' your stand, Wi' a hinging toom meal pock. And sing, Oh waes me! Then rear your hand, and glowr, and stare, Tell them ye are frae Scotland come, For Scotia's relief; Tell them ye are the vera best Wal'd frae the fattest flock, Then raise your arms, and O! display A hinging toom meal pock. And sing, Oh waes me! Tell them ye're wearied o' the chain John Robertson. BLYTH ARE WE SET WI' ITHER. Blyth are we set wi' ither; Fling Care ayont the moon; Nae sae aft we meet thegither; Wha wad think o' parting soon? And burn and river cease to flow : Blyth are we, &c. *We are not very certain to what tune this song is sung.-We believe it is an old one, but those who may be inquisitive on this topic, may apply to our worthy friend Mr. G. M of Paisley, who sings it himself ad vivam, and shakes the toum meal pock to the admiration of all. |