Is this the time to spin a thread And see him come ashore. For there's nae luck about the house, There's little pleasure in the house, 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, 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, Gie little Kate her cotton gown, And Jock his Sunday's coat; 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, 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, 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 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, Before yon-hills o' beef, 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. Now, round the ingle cheerly met, We'll scog the blast and dread nae harm; We'll keep the genial current warm. The cares that cluster round the heart," Nae pain the happy bosom feels, Sae free o' care as yours and mine. 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 |