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Gudeman, ye may weel a-begging gang,
Ye seem sae weel to bear the pocke :
To seek your meat amang gude folke.
Nay, lo you luik sae like a gowke,
Gudewife, you promised, when we were wed,
That ye wad me truly obey; Mess John can witness what
And I'll go fetch him in this day :
And gif that haly man will say, Ye'se do the thing that I desyre,
Then sall we sune end up And ye sall do what I require.
I nowther care for John nor Jacke
I'll tak my pleasure at my ease; I care not what you say a placke
Ye may go fetch him gin ye please.
And, gin ye want ane of a mease, Ye may e'en gae
fetch the deil frae belle ; I wad you wad let your japin cease, For I'll do but what I like mysell.
Well, sin' it will nae better bee,
I'll tak my share or a' bee gane: The warst card in my hand sall flee,
And, i' faith, I wait I can shifte for ane.
I'll sell the plow, and lay to wadd the waine, And the greatest spender sall beare the bell :
And then, when all the gudes are gane, Dame, do the thing ye list yoursell.
THE HAWTHORN TREE.
Tune-There grows a bonnie Brier Bush.
O SWEET are the blossoms o'the hawthorn tree,
Lovely is the rose in the dewy month o' June,
me, As the bonnie milky blossoms o' the hawthorn tree.
O, blythe at fair and market fu' aften hae I been, And wi' a crony frank and leal some happy hours I've
seen ; But the blythest hours I e'er enjoy'd were shared, my
love, wi' thee, In the gloamin', 'neath the bonnie bonnie hawthorn
Sweetly sang the blackbird, low in the woody glen, And fragrance sweet spread on the gale, licht ower the
dewy plain; But thy saft voice and sighing breath were sweeter far
While whispering o' love beneath the hawthorn tree.
Auld Time may wave his dusky wing, and Chance may
cast his die, And the rainbow-hues o’ flatt’ring hope may darken in Gay summer pass, and winter stalk stern ower the fro
zen lea, Nor leaf nor milky blossom deck the hawthorn tree; But still'd maun be the pulse that wakes this glowing
heart of mine, For me nae mair the spring maun bud, nor summer
And low maun be my hame, sweet maid, ere I be false
to thee, Or forget the vows I breathed beneath the hawthorn
THE POETS, WHAT FOOLS THEY'RE
TO DEAVE US.
TUNE-Fy, let us a' to the bridal.
The poets, what fools they're to deave us,
How ilka ane's lassie's sae fine;
The neist ane you meet wi's divine !
Be't Katie, or Janet, or Jean ;
Compared to the blink o' her een.
The earth an' the sea they've ransackit
For sim'lies to set off their charms;
By poets, like bumbees, in swarms.
By chiels that the truth winna tell ?
To say, Lass, ye're just like your sell ?
An' then there's nae end to the evil,
For they are no deaf to the din-
Daur scarce look the gate they are in !
There's a lassie wbase name I could tell ;
But whisht! I am ravin' mysell.
But he that o' ravin's convickit,
When a bonnie sweet lass he thinks on,
May he ne'er get anither strait jacket
Than that buckled to by Mess John !
The charms o' the fair never saw,
I swear is the daftest of a'.
WHEN JOHN AND ME WERE MARRIED.
When John and me were married,
Our hadding was but sma',
Wad gie us nocht ava.
As far as it wad gae ;
Was clean pease strae.
Wi' working late and early,
We're come to what you see;
Sae eydent aye were we.
I'm sure you'll find it sae,
’Mang clean pease strae.
The rose blooms gay on cairny brae
As weel's in birken shaw,
As weel's in lofty ha'.
O'clean pease strae.
CAM YE BY ATHOLE.
Cam ye by Athole braes, lad wi' the philabeg,
Down by the Tummel, or banks of the Garry? Saw ye my lad, wi' his bonnet and white cockade, Leaving bis mountains to follow Prince Charlie ?
Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee?
Lang hast thou loved and trusted us fairly ! Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee? King of the Highland hearts, bonny Prince
I hae but ae son, my brave young Donald I
But, if I had ten, they should follow Glengary: Health to MacDonald and gallant Clan-Ronald, For they are the men that wad die for their Charlie.
Charlie, Charlie, &c.
I'll to Lochiel, and Appin, and kneel to them;
Down by Lord Murray, and Roy of Kildarlie ; Brave MacIntosh he shall fly to the field with them; They are the lads I can trust wi' my Charlie.
Charlie, Charlie, &c.
Down through the Lowlands, down wi' the Whigamore,
Loyal true Highlanders, down wi' them rarely! Ronald and Donald, drive on with the braid claymore, Over the necks of the foes of Prince Charlie !
Charlie, Charlie, &c.
THERE GROWS A BONNIE BRIER BUSH.
TUNE- There grows a bonnie Brier Bush.
There grows a bonnie brier bush in our kail-yard, There grows a bonnie brier bush in our kail-yard ; And on that bonnie bush there's twa roses I loe dear, And they're busy busy courting in our kail-yard.