OH, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TAM! And O, for ane and twenty, Tam! An I saw ane and twenty, Tam. A gleib o' lan', a claut o' gear, They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, THE MINSTREL. KEEN blaws the wind o'er Donnocht-Head, The snaw drives snellie thro' the dale; The Gaber-lunzie tirls my sneck, And, shivering, tells his waefu' tale. Cauld is the night, O let me in, Full ninety winters hae I seen, And pip'd whare gor-cocks whirring flew; My Eppie wak'd, and soon she cry'd, Was short when he began his din. My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet, Come in, auld carl, I'll steer my fire, Ye should nae stray sae far frae hame, Nae hame have I, the minstrel said, I wander thro' a wreath o' snaw. * *This transcendent little fragment, which must be admired by every one in whom the warmth of feeling glows even in its last embers, has been published anonymously. And that it was ascribed to BURNS is evident from his own words, which we will with more cheerfulness transcribe, since they contain a very high encomium upon it. In a letter to Mr. THOMPSON he thus writes, "Donocht-Head is not mine; I would give ten pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald, and came to the editor of that paper with the Newcastle post mark on it." We certainly agree with the Editor of the Reliques of BURNS, that the author need not be ashamed to own himself, since it is worthy of even that poet himself, or Macneill. The aged Minstrel claiming the rites of hospitality from those whose best recollections UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. CAULD blaws the win' frae north to south, The sheep are couring i' the heugh, Now up in the morning's no for me, I'd rather gang supperless to my bed, Rude rairs the blast amang the woods, Now up in the morning's no for me, To sit a' the night I'd rather agree, The sun peeps o'er the southlan' hill, When snaw blaws into the chimley cheek, Nae linties lilt on hedge or bush, are associated with his traditionary melodies, is a sacred character; and, when preferring this claim with the pathos of our author, charity, as she wipes the tear from the cheek of wretchedness, feels one trickle down her own, tributary to afflicted ge nius. Now up in the morning's no for me, No fate can be waur, in winter time, A cosey house, and cantie wife, And pantry stow'd wi' meal and maut, But up in the morning, na, na, na, The gowans maun glent on bank and brae, TIBBIE FOWLER. TIBBIE FOWLER o' the glen, There's o'er monie wooin at her, Tibbie Fowler o' the glen, There's o'er monie wooin at her, Wooin at her, pu'in at her, That a' the lads are wooin at her. Ten cam east, and ten cam west, There's seven but, and seven ben, Seven in the pantry wi' her; Twenty head about the door, There's ane-and-forty wooin at her. * In page 137 our readers will find a song by BURNS, of the same name, and upon the same subject. The one here given appears to be the original, and is sometimes printed in conjunction with the one by BURNS. She's got pendles in her lugs, Be a lassie e'er sae black, An' she hae the name o' siller, Set her upo' Tintock tap, The wind will blaw a man 'till her. Wooin at her, &c. Be a lassie e'er sae fair, An' she want the pennie siller, A flie may fell her in the air, THE WEE WIFEIKIE. THERE was a wee bit wifeikie, was comin frae the fair, Had got a little drappikie, that bred her meikle care; * Tibbie Fowler is a song of considerable antiquity, and a native of Nithsdale, among the peasantry of which district many variations of it yet exist, though others of them have been long forgotten. In the absence of all other information respecting it, the following anecdote may perhaps be acceptable.-—“ An old Nithsdale farmer possessed a fair portion of that satiric humour which belongs to the song of Tibbie Fowler. Having two daughters' mair black than bonnie,' he would hint at their uncomeliness My lasses wad hae mensed me had I lived among the black, but comelie daughters of Jerusalem,' he would say ;but I'll do wi' them as the Gudeman o' Roanshaw did wi' his cowtes-He put siller graithing on them, and hung bobbins o' gowd at their manes, and shawed them at the market, saying'Some will gie a bode for ye, for the sonks and bridle !'" |