Gudeman, ye may weel a-begging gang,
Ye seem sae weel to bear the pocke:
Ye may as weel gang sune as syne,
To seek your meat amang gude folke.
In ilka house ye'll get a locke,*
When ye come whar

your gossips dwell.
Nay, lo you luik sae like a gowke,
I'll do but what I list mysell.

Gudewife, you promised, when we were wed,

That ye wad me truly obey;

Mess John can witness what you said,
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 this fray,
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 helle;
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.

*Handful.

THE HAWTHORN TREE.

TUNE-There grows a bonnie Brier Bush.

O SWEET are the blossoms o' the hawthorn tree,
The bonnie milky blossoms o' the hawthorn tree,
When the saft wastlin wind, as it wanders ower the lea,
Comes laden wi' the breath o' the hawthorn tree.

Lovely is the rose in the dewy month o' June,
And the lily gently bending beneath the sunny noon;
But the dewy rose, nor lily fair, is half sae sweet to

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

tree.

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

to me,

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 the sky,

Gay summer pass, and winter stalk stern ower the frozen 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 blossoms shine,

And low maun be my hame, sweet maid, ere I be false to thee,

Or forget the vows I breathed beneath the hawthorn

tree.

THE POETS, WHAT FOOLS THEY'RE TO DEAVE US.

ROBERT GILFILLAN.

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 tane is an angel-and, save us !
The neist ane you meet wi's divine !
And then there's a lang-nebbit sonnet,
Be't Katie, or Janet, or Jean;
And the moon, or some far-awa planet's
Compared to the blink o' her een.

The earth an' the sea they've ransackit
For sim❜lies to set off their charms;
And no a wee flow'r but's attackit

By poets, like bumbees, in swarms.
Now, what signifies a' this clatter,
By chiels that the truth winna tell?
Wad it no be settlin' the matter,

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-
That like me ony puir luckless deevil
Daur scarce look the gate they are in!
But e'en let them be, wi' their scornin':
There's a lassie whase name I could tell ;
Her smile is as sweet as the mornin'-
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!
An' he wha-though cautious an' canny-
The charms o' the fair never saw,
Though wise as King Solomon's grannie,
I swear is the daftest of a'.

WHEN JOHN AND ME WERE MARRIED.

TANNAHILL,

TUNE-Clean pease strae.

WHEN John and me were married,
Our hadding was but sma',
For my minnie, canker'd carline,
Wad gie us nocht ava.

I wair't my fee wi' cannie care,
As far as it wad gae ;
But, weel I wat, our bridal bed
Was clean pease strae.

Wi' working late and early,

We're come to what you see;
For fortune thrave aneath our hands,
Sae eydent aye were we.

The lowe o' love made labour light;
I'm sure you'll find it sae,
When kind ye cuddle down at e'en
'Mang clean pease strae.

The rose blooms gay on cairny brae
As weel's in birken shaw,
And love will live in cottage low,

As weel's in lofty ha'.

Sae, lassie, take the lad ye like,

Whate'er your minnie say,

Though ye should mak your bridal bed
O' clean pease strae.

CAM YE BY ATHOLE.

HOGG.

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 his 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
Charlie!

I hae but ae son, my brave young Donald!
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.