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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; 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?
Gif I lig in my

bed till noone, By nae man's shins I bake my breid, And ye need not reck what I have done.

Nay, look to the clooting o' your shoone, And with my rising do not mell;

For, gin ye lig baith sheets abune, I'll do but what I will mysell.

Gudewife, ye maun needs tak a care
To save the


that we hae won ; Or lye away baith plow and car,

And hang up Ring + when a' is done.

Then may our bairns a-begging run, To seek their mister | in the myre.

Sae fair a thread as we hae won! Dame, do the thing whilk I require.

Gudeman, ye may weel a-begging gang,
Ye seem sae weel to bear the pocke:

+ The dog.
☆ Supposed to signify money, or means of livelihood.

Ye may as weel gang sune as syne,

To seek your meat amang gude folke.

In ilka house ye'll get a locke, * When

your gossips dwell. Nay, lo


luik like a gowke, I'll do but what I list mysell.

ye come whar


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


fetch the deil frae helle; I wad you wad let your japin cease, For I'll do but what I like mysell.

may e'en

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


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 oʻJune,
And the lily gently bending beneath the sunny noon;
But the dewy rose, nor lily fair, is half sae sweet to

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

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' fatt'ring hope may darken in

the sky, Gay summer pass, and winter stalk stern ower the fro

zen lea, Nor leaf nor milky blossom deck the hawthorn treo;

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





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'.



TUNE-Clean pease strae.
WHEN John and me were married,

Our hadding was but sma',

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 tbrave 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 cuddle down at e'en
'Mang clean pease strae.


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