Ah! Lawrie, ye've debauch'd the lass,
Wi' vile new-fangled tricks ye've play'd her;
Deprav'd her morals;-like an ass,
Ye've courted her, and syne betray'd her.
Wi' hanging of her, burning of her,
Cutting, hacking, slashing at her;
Bonnie Lizy Liberty,
May ban the day ye ettl'd at her.
TUNE-" Gloomy Winter's now awa."
I've seen the lily on the wold,
I've seen the op❜ning marigold
Their fairest hues at morn unfold,
But fairer is my Mary, O.
How sweet the fringe of mountain burn,
With op'ning flow'rs at spring's return!
How sweet the scent of flow'ry thorn!
But sweeter is my Mary, O.
Her heart is gentle, warm, and kind;
Her form's not fairer than her mind;
Two sister beauties rarely join'd,
But join'd in lovely Mary, O.
As music from the distant steep;
As star-light on the silent deep;
So are my passions lull'd asleep
By love for bonnie Mary, O.
*This lively, humourous, aud sensible song, is another of the productions of the Rev. and worthy Mr. SKINNER.
to have been written about the time of the French Revolution, and to have a special reference to that event.
Yet, Mary, when I see the flow'r
Drop under autumn's chilling show'r,
In tears, I mind the coming hour,
Must blast my bonnie Mary, O.
Thy spring so fair is past away;
How soon will close thy summer day!
Love's season will not long delay:
Bethink thee, lovely Mary, O.
OUR bugles sung truce, for the night cloud had lower'd,
And the centinel stars set the watch in the sky,
And thousands had sunk on the ground, overpower'd;
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
In the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And twice ere the cock crew, I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate tract,
Till nature and sunshine disclos'd the sweet way
To the house of my fathers, that welcom'd me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields, travell❜d so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And well knew the strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledg'd we the wine cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobb'd aloud, in the fulness of heart'Stay, stay with us, rest-thou art weary and worn!' And fain was the war-broken soldier to stay; But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
TAK YOUR AULD CLOAK ABOUT YE.
In winter when the rain rain'd cauld,
And frost and snaw on ilka hill,
And Boreas, wi' his blast sae bauld,
Was threat'ning a' our kye to kill:
Then Bell, my wife, wha lo'es na strife,
She said to me right hastilie,
Get up, goodman, save Crumie's life,
And tak your auld cloak about ye.
My Crumie is a useful cow,
And she is come of a good kin'; Aft has she wet the bairns' mou, And I am laith that she should tyne; Get up, goodman, it is fou time, The sun shines frae the lift sae hie; Sloth never made a gracious end, Go tak your auld cloak about ye.
My cloak was ance a good grey cloak,
When it was fitting for my wear;
But now it's scantly worth a groat,
For I have worn't this thretty year;
Let's spend the gear that we have won,
We little ken the day we'll die:
Then I'll be proud, since I hae sworn
To hae a new cloak about me.
In days when our king Robert rang,
His trews they cost but hauf a crown; He said they were a groat owre dear, And ca'd the taylor thief and lown: He was the king that wore a crown, And thou'rt a man of laigh degree; 'Tis pride puts a' the country down, Sae tak your auld cloak about ye.
Every land has its ain laugh,
Ilk kind of corn has its ain hool;
I think the warld is a' gaun daft,
When ilka wife her man wad rule.
Do ye not see Rob, Jock, and Hab,
How they are girded gallantlie,
While I sit hurklen in the ase;
I'll have a new cloak about me.
Goodman, I wat, 'tis thretty years
Since we did ane anither ken;
And we hae had atween us twa,
Of lads and bonny lasses, ten:
Now they are women grown and men,
I wish and pray weel may they be;
And why will thou thysell misken?
E'en tak your auld cloak about ye.
Bell, my wife, she lo'es na strife;
But she wad guide me, if she can,
And to maintain an easy life,
I aft maun yield, tho' I'm goodman:
Nought's to be won at woman's hand,
Unless ye gie her a' the plea;
Sae I'll leave aff whare I began,
And tak my auld cloak about me.
KAIL BROSE O' AULD SCOTLAND.
TUNE" O! the roast beef of Old England."
WHEN Our ancient forefathers agreed wi' the laird,
For a piece o' gude grund to be a kail-yard,
It was to the brose that they paid their regard:
O! the kail-brose of auld Scotland,
And O! the Scottish kail-brose.
When Fergus, the first of our kings, I suppose,
At the head of his nobles had vanquish'd our foes,
Just before they began, they'd been feasting on brose.
O! the kail-brose, &c.
Our sodgers were drest in their kilts and short hose, Wi' their bonnets and belts, which their dress did com
And a bag of oat-meal on their backs to be brose.
O! the kail-brose, &c.
At our annual elections for bailies or mayor,
Nae kickshaws o' puddings or tarts were seen there;
But a cog o' gude brose was the favourite fare.
O! the kail-brose, &c.
But now since the thistle is join'd to the rose,
And the English nae langer are counted our foes,
We've lost a great deal o' our relish for brose.
O! the kail-brose, &c.
Yet each true-hearted Scotsman, by nature jocose,
Likes always to feast on a cog o' gude brose;
And thanks be to heav'n we've yet plenty of those.
O! the kail-brose, &c.
YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can you bloom sae fresh and fair?
How can ye sing, ye little birds,
While I'm sae wearie fu' o' care?
Ye'll break my heart, ye little birds,
That warble on the flow'ry thorn;
Ye mind me o' departed joys,
Departed never to return.
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