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Is this the time to spin a thread

When Colin's at the door?
Reach me my cloak, I'll to the quay
And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house,

There is nae luck ava;
There's little pleasure in the house,

When our gudeman's awa.

And gie to me my bigonet

My bishop-satin gown;
For I maun tell the bailie's wife

That Colin's come to town.
My Sunday's shoon they maun gae on,

My hose of pearl blue;
Its a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he's baith leal and true.

For there's nae, &c.
Rise up and mak a clean fire-side,

Put on the muckle pot,
Gie little Kate her cotton gown,

And Jock his Sunday's coat;
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,

Their hose as white as snaw,
Its a' to pleasure my gudeman,
He likes to see them braw.

For there's nae, &c.

There's twa fat hens upon the bauk

Been fed this month and mair,
Mak haste, and thraw their necks about,

That Colin weel may fare;
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

As he comes up the stair !
And shall I see his face again,

And shall I hear him speak !
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.

For there's nae, dc.

If Colin's weel, I'm weel content,

I hae nae mair to craveAnd gin I live to keep him sae,

I'm blest aboon the lave.
And shall I see his face again,

And shall I hear him speak !
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.

For there's nae, &c.

The cauld blasts of the winter wind,

That thrilled through my heart,
They're a' blawn by,-I hae him safe,

Till death we'll never part :
But why should I of parting talk ?

It may be far awa ;
The present moment is our ain,
The neist we never saw.
For there's nae, &c.

Jean Adam


Preserve us a'! what shall we do,

Thir dark unhallowed times ? We're surely dreeing penance now

For some most awfu' crimes.
Sedition daurna now appear,

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,

For sport and pastime free, I seem'd like ane in paradise,

The moments quick did flee. Like Venuses they a' appeared,

Weel pouthered was their locks, 'Twas easy dune, when at their hames, Wi' the shaking o' their pocks.

And sing, Oh waos me !

How happy past my former days,

Wi' merry heartsome glee,
When smiling fortune held the cup,

And peace sat on my knee ;
Nae wants had I but were supplied,

My heart wi' joy did knock,
When in the neuk I smiling saw
A gaucie weel fill'd pock.

And sing, Oh waes me !

Speak no ae word about reform,

Nor petition Parliament,
A wiser scheme I'll now propone,

I'm sure ye'll gie consent-
Send up a chiel or twa like me,

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,

Wi' rags, and banes, and skin,
Hae nae impression on yon folks,

But tell ye'll stand ahin.
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,

Before yon-hills o' beef,
Tell them ye are frae Scotland come,

Tell them ye are the vera best

Wal'd frae the fattest flock,
Then raise your arms, and 0 ! display
A hinging toom meal pock.

And sing, Oh waes me !

Tell them ye're wearied o' the chain

That hauds the State thegither,
For Scotland wishes just to tak'

Gude nicht wi' ane anither.
We canna thole, we canna bide

This hard unwieldy yoke,
For wark and want but ill agree,
Wi' a hinging toom meal pock.

And sing, Oh waes me ! *

John Robertson.


Blyth are we set wi' ither;

Fling Care ayont the moon;
Nae sae aft we meet thegither;

Wha wad think o' parting soon ?
Tho' snaw bends down the forest trees,

And burn and river cease to flow:
Tho' Nature's tide hae shor'd to freeze,
And winter nithers a' below.

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 rivam and shakes the toom meal pock to the admiration of all.

Now, round the ingle cheerly met,

We'll scog the blast and dread nae barm;
Wi' jaws o' toddy, reeking het,

We'll keep the genial current warm.
The friendly crack, the cheerfu' sang,

Shall cheat the happy hours awa',
Gar pleasure reign the e'ening lang,
And laugh at biting frost and snaw.

Blyth are we, &c.

The cares that cluster round the heart,

And gar the bosom stound wi' pain,
Shall get a fright afore we part,

Will gar them fear to come again.
Then, fill about, my winsome chiels,

The sparkling glass will banish pine:
Nae pain the happy bosom feels,
Sae free o' care as yours and mine.

Blyth are we, &c.

The above song is given from the two volumes of miscellaneous poetry published by Picken, previous to his death. Some particulars regarding him have been handed to us by a friend, which were, however, too late for insertion in the proper place.

That friend has also given us the name of another versifier, by name James Caldwell, of whom we were ignorant. Caldwell, it seems, was the author of several loyal songs, published anonymously, which were sung on His Majesty's birth-day at the annual processions of the weavers of Paisley. These were mostly composed during the period that Wilkes’ faction was at its height. He died at an advanced period of life in 1787.

Ebenezer Picken was bred to the church, but desisted from prosecuting his theological studies for the purpose of enjoying more leisure to cultivate the muses. How much he may have sacrificed for their sakes is not perhaps exactly known; but certain it is that these coy nymphs adventured but little for his. He was of a social and joyous disposition, fond of company, and intimate with most of the minor constellations in the hemisphere of Scotish poetry. He was the friend of Alexander Wil.

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