Wad ye be at the tother can, To scoure your throat sae sune this morne? Gude faith, I haud it but a scorne, That suld with my rising mell; ye ** For when ye have baith said and sworne, I'll do but what I like mysell. Gudewife, we maun needs have a care, Sae lang's we wonne in neebors' rawe, O' neeborheid to tak a share, And rise up when the cocks does crawe; For I have heard an auld said sawe, "They that rise the last big on the fyre." What wind or weather so ever blaw, Dame, do the thing whilk I desyre. Nay, what do ye talk of neeborheid? For, gin ye lig baith sheets abune, Gudewife, ye maun needs tak a care To save the geare that we hae won; Gudeman, ye may weel a-begging gang, Meddle. The dog. Supposed to signify money, or means of livelihood. Ye may as weel gang sune as syne, Gudewife, you promised, when we were wed, Then sall we sune end up this fray, I nowther care for John nor Jacke- Ye 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, 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 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, or 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, The earth an' the sea they've ransackit 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, But e'en let them be, wi' their scornin': But he that o' ravin's convickit, When a bonnie sweet lass he thinks on, WHEN JOHN AND ME WERE MARRIED. TANNAHILL, TUNE-Clean pease strae. WHEN John and me were married, I wair't my fee wi' cannie care, Wi' working late and early, We're come to what you see; 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 |