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MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here-
Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow;
THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND.
[WRITTEN AFTER THE BATTLE OF CULLODEN,
Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
* Except the first four lines, which are old.
Some social join, and leagues combine ;
Some solitary wander:
Tyrannic man's dominion ;
The fluttering, gory pinion.
But, Peggy dear, the evening's clear,
Thick flies the skimming swallow;
All fading green and yellow :
And view the charms o' nature,
And every happy creature.
We'll gently walk and sweetly talk,
Till the silent moon shine clearly ;
And swear I love thee dearly.
Not autumn to the farmer,
My fair, my lovely charmer!
THE BIG-BELLIED BOTTLE.
TUNE-Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the Tavern let's fly. No churchman am I, for to rail and to write ; No statesman or soldier, to plot or to fight; No sly man of business, contriving a snare ; For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care.
peer I don't envy-I give him his bow; I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low;
But a club of good fellows, like those that are here, And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.
Here passes the squire on his brother-his horse ;
« Life's cares they are comforts,"* a maxim laid down By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black
gown; And faith I agree with th' old prig to a hair, For a big-bellied bottle's a heaven of care.
[STANZA ADDED IN A MASON LODGE.]
Then fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow,
* Young's Night Thoughts.
TUNE-Nancy's to the Greenwood gane.
NANCY's to the greenwood gane,
To hear the gowdspink chatt'ring; And Willie he has follow'd her,
To gain her love by flatt'ring : But, a' that he could say or do,
She geck'd and scorned at him ; And, aye when he began to woo,
She bad bim mind wha gat him.
My minnie or my auntie ?
Lang-kale and ranty-tanty:
Of thae there was richt plenty,
And was not that richt dainty ?
Although my father was nae laird,
'Tis daffin to be vaunty,
A ha' house, and a pantry:
An owerlay 'bout his craigie ;
He rade on guid shanks-naigie.'
Now wae and wonder on your snout,
Wad ye hae bonny Nancy? Wad ye compare yoursell to me
A docken till a tanzie ? I hae a wooer o' my ain,
They ca' him Souple Sandy;
And weel I wat his bonny mou’
Is sweet like sugar-candy.
Now, Nancy, what need a' this din ?
Do I no ken this Sandy ?
Was Rab, the beggar-randy:
Bare baith him and his billy ;
To me, your winsome Willy ?
Though it be auld and rusty,
It is baith stout and trusty;
That he shall get a heezy.
Then Nancy turn'd ber round about,
And said, Did Sandy hear ye,
I ken he disna fear ye:
Set somewhere else your fancy;
Ye never shall get Nancy.*
* This clever song is marked in the Tea-Table Miscellany as one of the anonymous and old sort of which the editor knew nothing; but I have been informed, upon good authority, that it was the composition of a Mr Ainslie, a small farmer at Carrington, near Dalkeith, who lived upwards of a century ago. It seems to present a just, as it certainly does a graphic picture of the food and dress of the rustic people of Scotland at that period.