And there will be gleed Geordy Janners, And there will be Geordie M'Cowrie, And there will be girn-again Gibbie, And there will be fadges and brachen, And there will be lapper'd-milk kebbucks, And there will be meal-kail and castocks, And roasts to roast on a brander 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? 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, How shall I lonely stray? In dreary dreams the night I'll waste, In sighs, the silent day. 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, At bridals still he bore the brag, And carried aye the gree awa : His doublet was of Zetland shag, 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? Sae merrily round the ring they row'd, And wasna Willy a great loun, As shyre a lick as e'er was seen? 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, If we want Willy's wanton fling. 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! |