Out spake the bride's mither:
'What, deil, needs a' this pride?
I hadna a plack' in my pouch
That night I was a bride.
My gown was linsey-wolsey,
And ne'er a sark3 ava;
And ye ha'e ribbons and buskin's'
Mae1 than ane or twa.'
Out spake the bride's brither
As he cam' in wi' the kye:"
'Puir Willie wad ne'er ha'e ta’en ye
Had he kent ye as weel as I.
For ye're baith proud and saucy,
And no for a puir man's wife;
Gin" I canna get a better
I'se ne'er tak' ane i' my life!'
Out spake the bride's sister
As she cam' in frae the byre;
'Oh, gin I were but married,
It's a' that I desire!
But we puir folk maun live,
And do the best we can;
I dinna ken what I should want
If I could get but a man!'
JOHN SKINNER
[1721-1807]
TULLOCHGORUM
COME, gi'es sang, Montgom'rie cried,
And lay your disputes a' aside;
What signifies for folks to chide
For what was done before them?
Let Whig and Tory a' agree,
Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory,
& Chemise. • Ornaments. 10 More. 11 Cows.
Whig and Tory a' agree
To drop their whigmigmorum;
Let Whig and Tory a' agree
To spend this night in mirth and glee,
And cheerfu' sing, alang wi' me,
The reel o' Tullochgorum.
O Tullochgorum's my delight;
It gars us a' in ane unite;
And ony sumph that keeps up spite,
In conscience I abhor him.
Blithe and merry we'll be a',
Blithe and merry, blithe and merry,
Blithe and merry we'll be a'
And mak' a cheerfu' quorum.
For blithe and merry we'll be a'
As lang as we ha'e breath to draw,
And dance, till we be like to fa',
The reel o' Tullochgorum.
What needs there be sae great a fraise
Wi' dringin', dull Italian lays?
I wadna gi'e our ain strathspeys
For half a hunder score o' them.
They're dowf and dowie at the best,
Dowf and dowie, dowf and dowie,
Dowf and dowie at the best,
Wi' a' their variorum.
They're dowf and dowie at the best,
Their allegros and a' the rest;
They canna please a Scottish taste
Compared wi' Tullochgorum.
Let worldly worms their minds oppress
Wi' fears o' want and double cess,
And sullen sots themsel's distress
Wi' keeping up decorum.
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit?
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,
Sour and sulky shall we sit,
Like auld philosophorum?
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit,
Nor ever rise to shake a fit
To the reel o' Tullochgorum?
May choicest blessings aye attend
Each honest, open-hearted friend,
And calm and quiet be his end,
And a' that's gude watch o'er him!
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Peace and plenty, peace and plenty,
Peace and plenty be his lot,
And dainties a great store o' them!
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Unstained by ony vicious spot,
And may he never want a groat,
That's fond o' Tullochgorum!
But for the discontented fool,
Wha wants to be oppression's tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten soul,
And discontent devour him!
May dule and sorrow be his chance,
Dule and sorrow, dule and sorrow,
Dule and sorrow be his chance,
And nane say 'Wae's me for him!'
May dule and sorrow be his chance,
And a' the ills that come frae France,
Whae'er he be that winna dance
The reel o' Tullochgorum!
MICHAEL BRUCE
[1746-1767]
TO THE CUCKOO
HAIL! beauteous Stranger of the wood!
Attendant on the Spring!
Now heav'n repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.
Soon as the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear:
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?
Delightful visitant! with thee
I hail the time of flow'rs,
When heav'n is fill'd with music sweet
Of birds among the bow'rs.
The schoolboy wand'ring in the wood
To pull the flow'rs so gay,
Starts, thy curious voice to hear,
And imitates thy lay.
Soon as the pea puts on the bloom,
Thou fly'st thy vocal vale,
An annual guest, in other lands,
Another Spring to hail.
Sweet bird! thy bow'r is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year!
Alas! sweet bird! not so my fate,
Dark scowling skies I see
Fast gathering round, and fraught with woe And wintry years to me.
O could I fly, I'd fly with thee:
We'd make, with social wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the Spring.
GEORGE HALKET
[d. 1756(?)]
LOGIE O' BUCHAN
O LOGIE O' Buchan, O Logie the laird,
They ha'e ta'en awa' Jamie, that delved in the yaird,
Wha played on the pipe and the viol sae sma',
They ha'e ta'en awa' Jamie, the flower o' them a'!
He said, Think na lang, lassie, though I gang awa'!'
He said, Think na lang, lassie, though I gang awa'!'
For simmer is coming, cauld winter's awa',
And I'll come and see thee in spite o' them a'!'
Though Sandy has ousen, has gear, and has kye,
A house and a hadden, and siller forbye;
Yet I'd tak' mine ain lad, wi' his staff in his hand,
Before I'd ha'e him, wi' the houses and land.
My daddy looks sulky, my minnie looks sour;
They frown upon Jamie because he is poor;
Though I lo'e them as weel as a dochter should do,
They're nae hauf sae dear to me, Jamie, as you.
I sit on my creepie, I spin at my wheel,
And think on the laddie that lo'ed me sae weel:
He had but a sixpence, he brak' it in twa,
And gi'ed me the hauf o't when he gaed awa'.
Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa'!
Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa'!
The simmer is coming, cauld winter's awa',
And ye'll come and see me in spite o' them a'.
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