Sae merrily round the ring they row'd, And wasna Willy a great loun, As shyre a lick as e'er was seen? When he danc'd with the lasses round, The bridegroom speer'd where he had been. With bobbing, faith, my shanks are sair; Then rest ye, Willy, I'll gae out, Bridegroom, she says, you'll spoil the dance, Unless like Willy ye advance; (O! Willy has a wanton leg:) For wi't he learns us a' to steer, And foremost aye bears up the ring; We will find nae sic dancing here, William Walkinshaw. THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE. And are you sure the news is true? And are you sure he's weel? Is this a time to talk of wark? Mak haste, lay by your wheel! Is this the time to spin a thread For there's nae luck about the house, There's little pleasure in the house, There's twa fat hens upon the bauk Been fed this month and mair, Mak haste, and thraw their necks about, And spread the table neat and clean, Gar ilka thing look braw, For wha can tell how Colin fared, When he was far awa. Ah! there's nae, &c. Sae true's his word, sae smooth's his speech His breath like caller air, His very foot has music in't For there's nae, &c. If Colin's weel, I'm weel content, For there's nae, &c. The cauld blasts of the winter wind, The present moment is our ain, The neist we never saw. For there's nae, &c. Jean Adam THE TOOM MEAL POCK. Preserve us a'! what shall we do, In reality or joke, For ilka chiel maun mourn wi' me, O'a hinging toom meal pock. And sing, Oh waes me! When lasses braw gae'd out at e'en, Weel pouthered was their locks, How happy past my former days, A gaucie weel fill'd pock. And sing, Oh waes me ! Speak no ae word about reform, As a sample o' the flock, Whase hollow cheeks will be sure proof, O'a hinging toom meal pock. And sing, Oh waes me! And should a sicht sae ghastly like, O what a contrast will ye shaw, To the glowrin Lunnun folk, When in St. James' ye tak' your stand, Wi' a hinging toom meal pock, And sing, Oh waes me! Then rear your hand, and glour, and stare, Tell them ye are frae Scotland come, For Scotia's relief; Tell them ye are the vera best Wal'd frae the fattest flock, Then raise your arms, and O! display A hinging toom meal pock. And sing, Oh waes me ! Tell them ye're wearied o' the chain * John Robertson. BLYTH ARE WE SET WI' ITHER. Blyth are we set wi' ither; Fling Care ayont the moon; Nae sae aft we meet thegither; Wha wad think o' parting soon? Blyth are we, &c. * We are not very certain to what tune this song is sung.-We believe it is an old one, but those who may be inquisitive on this topic may apply to our worthy friend Mr. G. M————————— of Paisley, who sings it himself ad vivam and shakes the toom meal pock to the admiration of all. |