THE BLYTHSUM BRIDAL. Fy let us a' to the bridal, For there will be lilting there; And there will be lang-kail and pottage, To relish a cog of good ale. Fy let us a' to the bridal, For there will be lilting there, And there will be Sandie the sutor, And there will be sow-libber Pattie, That wins in the how of the hill; Wi' snivelling Lilly, and Tibby- And Madge that was buckled to Steenie, And coft him grey breeks to his a―e, Wha after was hangit for stealing, Great mercy it happen'd na warse : And there will be gleed Geordy Janners, Who gade to the south for manners, And there will be Geordie M'Cowrie, And there will be girn-again Gibbie, Will feast in the heart of the ha', And there will be fadges and brachen, And there will be lapper'd-milk kebbucks, And there will be meal-kail and castocks, Scrapt haddocks, wilks, dulse, and tangle, For there will be lilting there; Francis Sempill. TWEEDSIDE. What beauties does Flora disclose ? How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed? Yet Mary's still sweeter than those; Both nature and fancy exceed. Nor daisy, nor sweet blushing rose, Not all the gay flowers of the field, Not Tweed, gliding gently through those, Such beauty and pleasure does yield. The warblers are heard in the grove, The linnet, the lark, and the thrush, The blackbird, and sweet cooing dove, With music enchant every bush. Come, let us go forth to the mead, Let us see how the primroses spring; We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, And love while the feather'd folks sing. How does my love pass the long day? Do they never carelessly stray, Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest; 'Tis she does the virgins excel, No beauty with her may compare ; Love's graces around her do dwell, She's fairest, where thousands are fair. Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray? Oh! tell me at noon where they feed; Shall I seek them on sweet winding Tay, Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed? Robert Crawfurd. MY DEARIE, IF THOU DIE. Love never more shall give me pain, Nor ever maid my heart shall gain, Thy beauty doth such pleasure give, If fate shall tear thee from my breast, In dreary dreams the night I'll waste, I ne'er can so much virtue find, Nor such perfection see; Then I'll renounce all womankind, My Peggy, after thee. No new-blown beauty fires my heart With Cupid's raving rage, But thine, which can such sweets impart, Must all the world engage. "Twas this, that like the morning sun, And when its destined day is done, Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, Restore my Peggy's wonted charms, Oh! never rob me from those arms; Robert Crawfurd. WILLY WAS A WANTON WAG. Willy was a wanton wag, The blythest lad that e'er I saw, And carried aye the gree awa : And at his shoulder hung a tag, That pleas'd the lasses best of a'. He was a man without a clag, His heart was frank without a flaw; And aye whatever Willy said, It was still hauden as a law. His boots they were made of the jag; And was not Willy weel worth gowd? |