296

Stane and mortar names;

Lately used at C

Christening Murray's crimes.
Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here's the worth and wisdor
Collieston can boast;

By a thievish midge

They had been nearly lost.
Buy braw troggin, &c.

Here is Murray's fragments
O' the Ten Commands;
Gifted by Black Jock,

To get them aff his hands.
Buy braw troggin, &c.

Saw ye e'er sic troggin?
If to buy ye're slack,

Hornie's turning chapinan--
He'll buy a' the pack.
Buy braw troggin,

Frae the banks o' Dee;

Wha wants troggin

Let him come to me.

BALLAD FOURTH.

JOHN BUSHBY'S LAMENTATION.

TUNE-The Babes in the Wood.

'TWAS in the seventeen hunder year

O' grace and ninety-five,

kite

toad

stone

gnat

off

That year I was the wae'est man

O' ony man alive.

saddest

any

the close

THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS.
TUNE-Push about the Jorum.

DOES haughty Gaul invasion threat?
Then let the loons beware, sir;
There's wooden walls upon our seas,
And volunteers on shore, sir.
The Nith shall run to Corsincon,
And Criffel sink in Solway,
Ere we permit a foreign foe
On British ground to rally!
Fall de rall, &c.

Oh, let us not like snarling tykes
In wrangling be divided;
Till, slap, come in an unco loon,
And wi' a rung decide it.
Be Britain still to Britain true,
Among oursels united;
For never but by British hands
Maun British wrangs be righted.
Fall de rall, &c.

The kettle o' the Kirk and State,
Perhaps a clout may fail in't;
But NOT a foreign tinkler loon
Shall ever ca' a nail in't.

Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought,
And wha wad dare to spoil it;

IN TROTH the sacrilegious dog

Shall fuel be to boil it.

Fall de rall, &c.

fellows

dogs

strange bludgeon

must, wrongs

mend

tinker

drive

blood

who would

300

How blest yo birds that round her sing,
And welcome in the blooming year!
And doubly welcome be the spring,
The season to my Lucy dear.
The sun blinks blithe on yon town,
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr;
But my delight in yon town,

And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair.

Without my love, not a' the charms
O' Paradise could yield me joy;
But gie me Lucy in my arms,
And welcome Lapland's dreary sky!
My cave wad be a lover's bower,

Though raging Winter rent the air;
And she a lovely little flower,

That I would tent and shelter there.

Oh, sweet is she in yon town,

Yon sinkin' sun's gane down upon;

A fairer than's in yon town

His setting beam ne'er shone upon.

If angry Fate is sworn my foe,

And suffering I am doomed to bear;
I careless quit aught else below,

But spare me-spare me, Lucy dear

give

would tend

gone