316

Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' him;
be distressed, but I winna complain;

I may

I flatter my fancy I may get anither,

My heart it shall never be broken for ane.
I couldna get sleeping till dawing for greetin',
The tears trickled down like the hail and the rain:
Had I no got grectin', my heart wad ha' broken,
For oh! love forsaken's a tormenting pain.
Although he has left me for greed o' the siller,
I dinna envy him the gains he can win;
I rather wad bear a' the lade o' my sorrow
Than ever hae acted sae faithless to him.

go wont another

one

dawn,

[weeping

not, would [have

money

dont

load

have, so

THE WEARY PUND O' TOW.

TUNE-The Weary Pund o' Tow.
THE weary pund, the weary pund,
The weary pund o' tow;

I think my wife will end her life
Before she spin her tow.

I bought my wife a stane o' lint

As guid as e'er did grow;

And a' that she has made o' that,
Is ae poor pund o' tow.

There sat a bottle in a bole,
Beyont the ingle lowe,

And aye she took the tither souk,
To drouk the stowrie tow.

Quoth I, for shame, ye dirty dame,
Gae spin your tap o' tow!
She took the rock, and wi' a knock
She brak it o'er my pow.

At last her feet-I sang to see't-
Gaed foremost o'er the knowe;
And or I wad anither jad,
I'll wallop in a tow.

GANE IS THE DAY.

TUNE-Guidwife, count the Lawin.

GANE is the day, and mirk's the night,
But we'll ne'er stray for fau't o' light,
For ale and brandy's stars and moon,
And bluid-red wine's the rising sun.
Then guidwife, count the lawin,
The lawin, the lawin;
Then guidwife, count the lawin,
And bring a coggie mair.

gone, dark

want

reckoning

cupful more

MY COLLIER LADDIE.

TUNE-The Collier Laddie.

WHERE live ye, my bonnie lass?
And tell me what they ca' ye;

My name, she says, is Mistress Jean,
And I follow the Collier Laddie.

See you not yon hills and dales,

The sun shines on sae brawlie!

They a' are mine, and they shall be thine,
Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie.

Ye shall gang in gay attire,
Weel buskit up sae gaudy;

And ane to wait on every hand,

Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. Though ye had a' the sun shines on, And the earth conceals sae lowly; I wad turn my back on you and it a' And embrace my Collier Laddie.

cal

go

dressed so

one

would

What is right and what is wrang, by the law, by the law?

What is right and what is wrang by the law?
What is right and what is wrang?

A short sword and a lang,

A weak arm, and a strang

For to draw.

What makes heroic strife, famed afar, famed afar?

What makes heroic strife famed afar?

What makes heroic strife?

To whet th' assassin's knife,

Or haunt a parent's life

Wi' bluidie war.

Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the state;

Then let your schemes alone in the state;

Then let your schemes alone,

Adore the rising sun,

And leave a man undone

To his fate.

LADY MARY ANN.

TUNE-Craigton's Growing.

OH, Lady Mary Ann looked o'er the castle wa';
She saw three bonnie boys playing at the ba';
The youngest he was the flower amang them a'—
My bonnie laddie's young, but he's growin' yet.

O father! O father! an ye think it fit,
We'll send him a year to the college yet:
We'll sew a green ribbon round about his hat,

And that will let them ken he's to marry yet.

faulte

must

wrong

long

strong

bloody

wall ball

if

Lady Mary Ann was a flower i' the dew,
Sweet was its smell, and bonnie was its hue;
And the langer it blossomed the sweeter it
grew:

For the lily in the bud will be bonnier yet.
Young Charlie Cochrane was the sprout of an aik;
Bonnie and bloomin' and straught was its make:
The sun took delight to shine for its sake,
And it will be the brag o' the forest yet.

819

longer

oak

straight

boast

The simmer is gane when the leaves they were green,
And the days are awa that we hae seen;
But far better days I trust will come again,

gone

away

For my bonnie laddie's young, but he's growin' yet.

KENMURE'S ON AND AWA.

TUNE-O Kenmure's on and awa, Willie.

O KENMURE'S on and awa, Willie !
O Kenmure's on and awa!

And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord
That ever Galloway saw.

Success to Kenmure's band, Willie !

Success to Kenmure's band;

There's no a heart that fears a Whig

That rides by Kenmure's hand.

Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willio

Here's Kenmure's health in wine;

There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude,
Nor yet o' Gordon's line.

O Kenmure's lads are men, Willie !

O Kenmure's lads are men;

Their hearts and swords are metal true--

And that their faes shall ken.

They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie
They'll live or die wi' fame;
But soon, wi' sounding victorie,
May Kenmure's lord come hame.

Here's him that's far awa, Willie !
Here's him that's far awa!

And here's the flower that I love best

The rose that's like the snaw!

away

foes know

SUCH A PARCEL OF ROGUES IN A NATION

TUNE-A Parcel of Rogues in a Nation.

FAREWELL to a' our Scottish fame,
Fareweel our ancient glory,

Fareweel even to the Scottish name,
Sae famed in martial story.

Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands,
And Tweed rins to the ocean,

To mark where England's province stands-
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.

What force or guile could not subdue
Through many warlike ages,
'Is wrought now by a coward few,
For hireling traitors' wages.
The English steel we could disdain,
Secure in valour's station;

But English gold has been our bane--
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.

O would, ere I had seen the day
That treason thus could fell us,
My auld gray head had lien in clay,
Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace!
But pith and power, till my last hour,
I'll make this declaration;

We're bought and sold for English gold-
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.

THE CARLES OF DYSART.

TUNE-Hey, ca' through.

UP wi' the carles o' Dysart,

And the lads o' Buckhaven,

And the kimmers o' Largo,
And the lasses o' Leven.

Hey, ca' through, ca' through,
For we hae mickle ado;
Hey, ca' through, ca' through,
For we hae mickle ado.

We hae tales to tell,

And we hae sangs to sing;

We hae pennies to spend,
And we hae pints to bring.

We'll live a' our days,

rups

men

gossipe

much

have

And them that come behin',

Let them do the like,

And spend the gear they win,

wealth

THE SLAVE'S LAMENT.

IT was in Sweet Senegal that my foes did me enthral,

For the lands of Virginia, O;

Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see it more.
And alas I am weary, weary, O!