PUIRTITH CAULD.

Tune" I had a horse."

O, PUIRTÍTH Cauld, and restless love,
Ye wreck my peace between ye;
Yet puirtith a' I could forgie,

An 'twere na for my Jeanie.

O, why should fate sic pleasure have,
Life's dearest bands untwining ?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on Fortune's shining?

This world's wealth when I think on,
Its pride, and a' the lave o't;
Fie, fie on silly coward man,

That he should be the slave o't.

O, why should fate, &c.

Her een, sae bonnie blue, betray
How she repays my passion ;
But prudence is her owerword aye,
She talks of rank and fashion.

O, why should fate, &c.

O, wha can prudence think upon
And sic a lassie by him?
O, wha can prudence think upon,
And sae in love as I am?

O, why should fate, &c.

How blest the humble cottar's lot!
He woos his simple dearie;
The sillie bogles, wealth and state,
Can never make them eerie.

O, why should fate, &c.

RATTLIN, ROARIN WILLIE.

THE last stanza of this song is mine; it was composed out of compliment to one of the wor thiest fellows in the world, William Dunbar, Esq. Writer to the signet, Edinburgh, and Colonel of the Crochallan corps, a club of wits who took that title at the time of raising the fencible regiments.

O RATTLIN, roarin Willie,
O he held to the fair,
An' for to sell his fiddle,

And buy some ither ware;
But parting wi' his fiddle,
The saut tear blint his ee;
And rattlin roarin Willie,

Ye're welcome hame to me.

O Willie, come sell your fiddle,
O sell your fiddle sae fine;
O willie come sell your fiddle,
And buy a pint o' wine.

If I should sell my fiddle,

The warl' wou'd think I was mad,

For many a rantin day

My fiddle and I hae had!

RAVING WINDS AROUND HER

BLOWING.

I COMPOSED these verses on Miss Isabella M'Leod of Raza, alluding to her feelings on the

So may you have auld stanes in store,
Igo, and ago,

The very stanes that Adam bore,
Íram, coram, dago.

Igo, and ago,

The coins o' Satan's coronation! Iram, coram, dago.

Bewitchingly o'er-arching

Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue. Her smiling sae wyling,

Wad make a wretch forget his woe; What pleasure, what treasure,

Unto these rosy lips to grow; Such was my Chloris' bonnie face, When first her bonnie face I saw, And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a'.

Like harmony her motion:

Her pretty ancle is a spy Betraying fair proportion,

Wad make a saint forget the sky. Sae warming, sae charming,

Her faultless form and graceful air; Ilk feature-auld Nature

Declar'd that she could do nae mair: Hers are the willing chains o' love,

By conquering beauty's sovereign law; And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, She says she lo'es me best of a'.

Let others love the city,

And gaudy show at sunny noon;

Gie me the lonely valley,

The dewy eve, and rising moon. Fair beaming and streaming,

Her silver light the boughs amang; While falling, recalling,

The amorous thrush concludes his sang: There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw, And hear my vows o' truth and love, And say thou lo'es me best of a'.

SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD.

Tune-" Tibby Fowler."

WILLIE WASTLE dwalt on Tweed,

The place they ca'd it Linkumdoddie. Willie was a wabster gude,

Could stown a clew wi' onie bodie. He had a wife was dour and din,

O, Tinkler Madgie was her mother: Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wadna gie a button for her!

She has an ee, she has but ane,

The cat has twa the very colour; Twa rustie teeth, forbye a stump,

A clapper tongue wad deave a miller; A whiskin' beard about her mou';

Her nose and chin they threaten ither: Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wadna gie a button for her!

She's bow-hough'd, she's bein-shinn'd, Ae limpin' leg a hand-bread shorter; She's twisted richt, she's twisted left, To balance fair in ilka quarter: