In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are

jeering, The bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and

gray ; At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae

fleechingThe Flowers of the Forest are a' wede

away.

Oh, fickle Fortune,

Why this cruel sporting ? Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day?

Nae mair your smiles can cheer me,

Nae mair your frowns can fear me ; For the Flowers of the Forest are a' Fede

away. Mrs. Cockburn.-Born 1679, Died 1749.

At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are

roaming, 'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to

play ; But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her

dearieThe Flowers of the Forest are a' wede

away.

Dule and wae for the order, sent our lads to

the Border ! The English, for ance, by guile wan the

day; The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye

the foremost, The prime o' our land, are cauld in the

clay. We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe.

milking, Women and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaningThe Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

Miss Jane Elliot.-About 1740.

1049.—THE FLOWERS OF THE

FOREST.

1050.- TULLOCHGORUM.
Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cried,
And lay your disputes all aside ;
What signifies 't for folks to chide

For what's been done before them?
Let Whig and Tory all agree,
Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory,
Let Whig and Tory all agree

To drop their Whigmegmorum.
Let Whig and Tory all agree
To spend this night with mirth and glee,
And cheerfu' sing alang wi' me

The reel of Tullochgorum.
0, Tullochgorum's my delight;
It gars us a' in ane unite;
And ony sumph that keeps up spite,

In conscience I abhor him.
Blithe and merry we's be a',
Blithe and merry, blithe and merry,
Blithe and merry we's be a',

And mak' a cheerfu' quorum.
Blithe and merry we's be a',
As lang as we hae breath to draw,
And dance, till we be like to fa',

The reel of Tullochgorum.
There need na be sae great a phrase
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays;
I wadna gie our ain strathspeys

For half a hundred score o' 'em.
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Douff and dowie, douff and dowie,
They're douff and dowie at the best,

Wi' a' their variorums.
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Their allegros, and a' the rest,
They canna please a Highland taste,

Compared wi' Tullochgorum.
Let warldly minds themselves oppress
Wi' fear of want, and double cess,
And sullen sots themselves distress

Wi' keeping up decorum.
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,

Like auld Philosophorum ?
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit,
And canna rise to shake a fit

At the reel of Tullochgorum ?

I've seen the smiling

Of Fortune beguiling; I've felt all its favours, and found its decay:

Sweet was its blessing,

Kind its caressing;
But now 'tis fled—fled far away.

I've seen the forest

Adorned the foremost
With flowers of the fairest most pleasant and

gay ;
Sae bonnie was their blooming!

Their scent the air perfuming !
But now they are wither'd and weedeu away.

I've seen the morning

With gold the hills adorning,
And loud tempest storming before the mid-

day.
I've seen Tweed's silver streams,

Shining in the sunny beams,
Grow drumly and dark as he row'd on his

way.

1052.-BRAID CLAITH.

May choicest blessings still attend
Each honest-hearted open friend ;
And calm and quiet be his end,

And a' that's good watch o'er him! May peace and plenty be his lot, Peace and plenty, peace and plenty, May peace and plenty be his lot,

And dainties, a great store o' 'em ! May peace and plenty be his lot, Unstain'd by any vicious blot; And may he never want a groat,

That's fond of Tullochgorum.

But for the discontented fool,
Who wants to be oppression's tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten soul,

And discontent devour him!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,
May dool and sorrow be his chance,

And nane say, Wae's me for 'im !
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
And a' the ills that come frae France,
Whate'er he be that winna dance

The reel of Tullochgorum!
John Skinner.- Born 1721, Died 1897.

Ye wha are fain to hae your name
Wrote i’ the bonnie book o' fame,
Let merit nae pretension claim

To laurell'd wreath,
But hap ye weel, baith back and wame,

In guid braid claith.
He that some ells o' this may fa',
And slae-black hat on pow like snaw,
Bids bauld to bear the gree awa,

Wi' a' this graith,
When beinly clad wi' shell fu' braw

O'guid braid claith.
Waesucks for him wha has nae feck o't!
For he's a gowk they're sure to geck at;
A chiel that ne'er will be respeckit

While he draws breath,
Till his four quarters are bedeckit

Wi' guid braid claith.
On Sabbath-days the barber spark,
When he has done wi' scrapin' wark,
Wi' siller broachie in his sark,

Gangs trigly, faith!
Or to the Meadows, or the Park,

In guid braid claith.
Weel might ye trow, to see them there,
That they to shave your haffits bare,
Or curl and sleek a pickle hair,

Would be right laith, When pacin' wi' a gawsy air

In guid braid claith. If ony mettled stirrah green For favour frae a lady's een, He maunna care for bein' seen

Before he sheath
His body in a scabbard clean

O' guid braid claith.
For, gin he come wi' coat threadbare,
A feg for him she winna care,
But crook her bonny mou fou sair,

And scauld him baith:
Wooers should aye their travel spare,

Without braid claith. Braid claith lends fouk an unca heeze ; Maks mony kail-worms butterflees; Gies mony a doctor his degrees,

For little skaith : In short, you may be what you please,

Wi' guid braid claith.

1051.--AMYNTA.

My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep

hook, And all the gay haunts of my youth I

forsook ; No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove; For ambition, I said, would soon cure me of

love. Oh, what had my youth with ambition to

do ? Why left I Amynta? Why broke I my

vow? Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook

restore, And I'll wander from love and Amynta no

more.

Through regions remote in vain do I rove,
And bid the wide ocean secure me from

love! Oh, fool! to imagine that aught could

subdue A love so well-founded, a passion so true !

Alas ! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine ;
Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be thine :
Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are

vain,
The moments neglected return not again.

Sir Gilbert Elliot.-- Died 1777.

For though ye had as wise a snont on,
As Shakspere or Sir Isaac Newton,
Your judgment fouk would hae a doubt on,

I'll tak my aith,
Till they could see ye wi' a suit on

O'guid braid claith.
Robert Fergusson.-Born 1751, Died 1774.

1053.—THE FARMER’S INGLE. Whan gloamin grey out owre the welkin

keeks; Whan Batie ca's his owsen to the byre ; Whan Thrasher John, sair dung, his barn.

door steeks, An' lusty lasses at the dightin' tire ; What bangs fu' leal the e'enin's coming

cauld, An' gars snaw-tappit Winter freeze in

vain; Gars dowie mortals look baith blithe an'

bauld, Nor fley'd wi' a' the poortith o' the plain; Begin, my Muse! and chaunt in hamely

strain. Frae the big stack, weel winnow't on the hill,

Wi' divots theekit frae the weet an' drift; Sods, peats, and heathery turfs the chimley

fill, An' gar their thickening smeek salute the

lift. The gudeman, new come hame, is blithe to

find, Whan he out owre the hallan flings his een, That ilka turn is handled to his mind;

That a' his housie looks sae cosh an' clean; For cleanly house lo'es he, though e'er sae

Garr'd Scotish thristles bang the Roman

bays; For near our crest their heads they dought

na raise. The couthy cracks begin whan supper's owre;

The cheering bicker gars them glibly gash O'Simmer's showery blinks, an' Winter's

sour, Whase floods did erst their mailin's produce

hash. 'Bout kirk an' market eke their tales gae on; How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his

bride; An' there, how Marion, for a bastard son,

Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride; The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to

bide. The fient a cheep's amang the bairnies now;

For a' their anger's wi' their hunger gane : Ay maun the childer, wi' a fastin' mou,

Grumble an' greet, an' mak an unco maen. In rangles round, before the ingle's low, Frae gudame's mouth auld warld tales they

hear, O' warlocks loupin round the wirrikow : Oghaists, that win in glen an kirkyard

drear, Whilk touzles a' their tap, an' gars them

shake wi' fear! For weel she trows, that fiends an' fairies be

Sent frae the deil to fleetch us to our ill; That ky hae tint their milk wi' evil ee; An' corn been scowder'd on the glowin'

kiln. O mock nae this, my friends! but rather

mourn, Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear ; Wi' eild our idle fancies a' return,

And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly fear; The mind's ay cradled whan the grave is

mean.

Weel kens the gudewife, that the pleughs

require A heartsome meltith, and refreshin' synd O' nappy liquor, owre a bleezin' fire :

Sair wark an' poortith downa weel be join'd. Wi' butter'd bannocks now the girdle reeks;

I’ the far nook the bowie briskly reams; The readied kail stands by the chimley cheeks, An' haud the riggin' het wi' welcome

streams, Whilk than the daintiest kitchen nicer

near.

seems.

Frae this, lat gentler gabs a lesson lear:

Wad they to labouring lend an eident hand, They'd rax fell strang upo' the simplest fare,

Nor find their stamacks ever at a stand. Fu' hale an' healthy wad they pass the day ; At night, in calmest slumbers dose fu'

sound; Nor doctor need their weary life to spae, Nor drogs their noddle and their sense

confound, Till death slip sleely on, an' gie the hindmost

wound.

Yet Thrift, industrious, bides her latest days, Though Age her sair-dow'd front wi' runcles

wave; Yet frae the russet lap the spindle plays ; Her e'enin stent reels she as weel's the

lave. On some feast-day, the wee things baskit

braw, Shall heese her heart up wi' a silent joy, Fu' cadgie that her head was up an' saw

Her ain spun cleedin' on a darlin' oy; Careless though death shou'd mak the feast

her foy. In its auld lerroch yet the deas remains, Where the gudeman aft streeks him at his

ease ; A warm and canny lean for weary banes

O' labourers doylt upo' the wintry leas. Round him will baudrins an' the collie come,

To wag their tail, and cast a thankfu' ee. To him wha kindly flings them mony a crum

On sicken food has mony a donghty deed

By Caledonia's ancestors been done ; By this did mony a wight fu' weirlike bleed

In brulzies frae the dawn to set o' sun. Twas this that braced their gardies stiff an'

strang; That bent the deadly yew in ancient days; Laid Denmark's daring sons on yird alang ;

Oʻkebbuck whang'd, an' dainty fadge to

prie; This a' the boon they crave, an' a' the fee.

Frae him the lads their mornin' counsel tak : What stacks he wants to thrash; what

rigs to till; How big a birn maun lie on bassie's back,

For meal an' mu'ter to the thirlin' mill. Niest, the gudewife her hirelin' damsels bids Glowr through the byre, an' see the hawkies

bound; Tak tent, case Crummy tak her wonted tids, An' ca' the laiglen's treasure on the

ground; Whilk spills a kebbuck nice, or yellow

pound. Then a' the house for sleep begin to green,

Their joints to slack frae industry a while; The leaden god fa's heavy on their e'en, An' hafflins steeks them frae their daily

toil : The cruizy, too, can only blink and bleer;

The reistit ingle's done the maist it dow; Tacksman an' cottar eke to bed maun steer,

Upo' the cod to clear their drumly pow,

Till wauken'd by the dawnin's ruddy glow. Peace to the husbandman, an'a' his tribe, Whase care fells a' our wants frae year to

year! Lang may his sock and cou'ter turn the gleyb, An' banks o' corn bend down wi' laded

ear! May Scotia's simmers ay look gay 'an'green ; Her" yellow ha’rsts frae scowry blasts de

creed ! May a' her tenants sit fu' snug an' bien, Frae the hard grip o' ails, and poortith

freed; An' a lang lasting train of peacefu' hours

succeed ! Robert Fergusson.-Born 1751, Died 1774.

Your noisy tongue, there's nae abidin't;
Like scauldin' wife's, there is nae guidin't;
When I'm 'bout ony business eident,

It's sair to thole;
To deave me, then, ye tak a pride in't,

Wi' senseless knoll.
Oh! were I provost o' the town,
I swear by a'the powers aboon,
I'd bring ye wi' a reesle down ;

Nor should you think
(Sae sair I'd crack and clour your crown)

Again to clink.
For, when I've toom'd the meikle cap,
And fain wald fa' owre in a nap,
Troth, I could doze as sound 's a tap,

Were't no for thee,
That gies the tither weary chap

To wauken me.
I dreamt ae night I saw Auld Nick :
Quo' he—"This bell o' mine's a trick,
A wily piece o' politic,

A cunnin' snare,
To trap fouk in a cloven stick,

Ere they're aware.
As lang's my dautit bell hings there,
A’ body at the kirk will skair;
Quo' they, if he that preaches there

Like it can wound,
We downa care a single hair

For joyfu' sound.”
If magistrates wi' me would 'gree,
For aye tongue-tackit should you be ;
Nor fleg wi' anti-melody

Sic honest fouk,
Whase lugs were never made to dree

Thy dolefu' shock.
But far frae thee the bailies dwell,
Or they would scunner at your knell ;
Gie the foul thief his riven bell,

And then, I trow,
The byword hauds, “The diel himsel

Has got his due."
Robert Fergusson.---Born 1751, Died 1774.

1054.—TO THE TRON-KIRK BELL.
Wanwordy, crazy, dinsome thing,
As e'er was framed to jow or ring !
What gar'd them sic in steeple hing,

They ken themsel;
But weel wat I, they couldna bring

Waur sounds frae hell.

1055.-A SUNDAY IN EDINBURGH.

On Sunday, here, an alter'd scene O' men and manners meets our een. Ane wad maist trow, some people chose To change their faces wi' their clo'es, And fain wad gar ilk neibour think They thirst for guidness as for drink; But there's an unco dearth o' grace, That has nae mansion but the face, And never can obtain a part In benmost corner o' the heart. Why should religion mak us sad, If good frae virtue's to be had ? 51

Fleece-merchants may look bauld, I trow,
Sin' a' Auld Reekie's childer now
Mann stap their lugs wi' teats o' woo,

Thy sound to bang,
And keep it frae gaun through and through

Wi' jarrin' twang.