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O! gladness comes to many,
But sorrow comes to me,
0! it's not my ain ruin
That saddens aye my ee,
Wi' bonnie bairns three;
And smiled my fair Marie:
heart behind me, In my ain countrie.
The bud comes back to summer,
And the blossom to the tree,
Which will be leal to me;
TUNE-Fy, let us a' to the bridal.
THERE's fouth o' braw Jockies and Jennies
Comes weel-buskit into the fair, With ribbons on their cockernonies,
And fouth o' fine flour on their hair. Maggie she was sae weel buskit,
That Willie was tied to his bride ;
The pownie was ne'er better whisket
Wi' cudgel that hang frae his side.
But Maggie was wondrous jealous,
To see Willie buskit sae braw ; And Sandy he sat in the alehouse,
And hard at the liquor did ca'. There was Geordie, that weel looed his lassie,
He took the pint-stoup in his arms, And hugged it, and said, Trouth they're saucie,
That loes na a guid-father's bairn.
There was Wattie, the muirland laddie,
That rides on the bonnie grey cowt, With sword by his side like a cadie
To drive in the sheep and the nowt. His doublet sae weel it did fit him,
It scarcely cam down to mid-thie, With hair pouthered, hat, and a feather,
And housing at curpen and tee.
But Bruckie played boo to Bassie, *
And aff scoured the cout like the wind : Puir Wattie he fell on the caussey,
And birzed all the banes in his skin.
And were a' bedaubed wi' dirt ;
Some leuch, and cried, Lad, was ye hurt?
But cout wad let naebody steer him,
He aye was sae wanton and skeigh ;
And garred a' the Jocks stand abeigh ;
* The cow played boo to the horse.
Wi' sneerin bebind and before him,
For sic is the mettle o' brutes, Puir Wattie, and waes me for him,
Was fain to gang hame in his boots.
Now it was late in the e'ening,
And boughting-time was drawing near ; The lasses had stanched their greening
Wi' fouth o’ braw apples and beer. There was Lillie, and Tibbie, and Sibbie,
And Ceicy on the spinnle could spin, Stood glowrin at signs and glass winnocks,
But deil a ane bade them come in.
Gude guide us ! saw ye ever the like o't?
See, yonder’s a bonnie black swan ; It glow'rs as it wad fain be at us; What's
that it bauds in its hand ? Awa', daft gowk, cries Wattie,
They're a' but a ruckle o' sticks ;
And yonder's Mess John and auld Nick.
Quoth Maggie, come buy us our fairin';
And Wattie richt sleely could tell, I think thou’rt the flower o' the clachan,
In trowth, now, I'se gie thee mysell. But wha wad ha' e'er thocht it o' him,
That e'er he had rippled the lint ? Sae proud was he o' his Maggie,
Though she was baith scaulie and squint.*
• From Herd's Collection, 1776.
TUNE-Bessy Bell and Mary Gray.
Forgive me if I thought your looks
Did once some change discover;
Of every faithful lover.
Which you blame so severely;
What 'tis to love sincerely.
The torments of a long despair
I could in silence smother;
To think you love another.
make me; Divinely blest if you prove true, Undone if you
IN BURLESQUE OF PRINCE CHARLES'S MANIFESTO.
TUNE-Clout the Caldron.
Have you any laws to mend ?
Or have you any grievance ? * This song, and the six songs and eight fragments which follow, are from a manuscript collection, made, during the decade of 1770-80, by a lady residing at Edinburgh. I am only permitted to mention that the compiler was an intimate friend of Mrs Catherine Cockburn, author of the later set of words to the tune of “the Flowers of the Forest," and of the burlesque on the Young Chevalier's Declaration, which immediately follows.
I am a hero to my trade,
And truly a most leal prince.
be free of taxes, Come chapping to my father's door,
You need not doubt of access.
Religion, laws, and liberty,
Ye ken, are bonnie words, sirs : They shall be a' made sure to you,
If you'll fecht wi' your swords, sirs. The nation's debt we soon shall pay,
If ye'll support our right, boys; No sooner we are brought in play
Than all things shall be tight, boys.
Ye ken that, by an Union base,
Your ancient kingdom's undone, That a' your ladies, lords, and lairds,
Gang up and live at London. Nae langer that we will allow, For, crack-it
goes asunderWhat took sic time and pains to do;
And let the warld wonder.
I'm sure, for seven years and mair,
Ye've heard o' sad oppression; And this is all the good ye got
By the Hanover succession. For absolute power and popery,
Ye ken it's a' but nonsense : I here swear to secure to you
Your liberty of conscience.
encouragement, Ye shall be pardoned by-ganes ; Nae mair fight on the Continent,
And leave behind your dry-banes.