Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit
And canna rise to shake a fit
To the Reel of Tullochgorum?
May choicest blessings still attend
Each honest-hearted open friend,
And calm and quiet be his end,
Be a' that's gude before him!
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Peace and plenty, peace and plenty,
May peace and plenty be his lot,
And dainties a great store o'm:
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Unstain'd by any vicious blot!
And may he never want a groat
That's fond of Tullochgorum.
But for the discontented fool,
Wha wants to be oppression's tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten soul,
And blackest fiends devour him!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
And honest souls abhor him;
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
And a' the ills that come frae France,
Whae'er he be that winna dance
The Reel of Tullochgorum. *
"This first of songs," says Burns, my old friend SKINNER. He was passing the day, at the town of Cullen I think it was, in a friend's house whose name was Montgomery.-Mrs. MONTGOMERY observing, en passant, that the beautiful reel of Tullochgorum wanted words, she begged them of Mr. SKINNER, who gratified her wishes, and the wishes of every lover of Scottish song, in this most excellent ballad.”
CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN.
THERE'S cauld kail in Aberdeen,
And custocks in Stra'bogie,
Whaur ilka lad maun hae his lass,
But I maun hae my coggie.
For I maun hae my coggie, troth,
I canna want my coggie:
I wadna gie my three-gir'd cog
For a' the wives in Bogie.
Johnnie Smith has got a wife
Wha scrimps him o' his coggie;
But were she mine, upon my life,
I'd dook her in a bogie.
For I maun hae my coggie, troth,
I canna want my coggie;
I wadna gie my three-gir'd cog
For a' the wives in Bogie.
'Twa-three todlin weans hae they,
The pride o' a' Stra'bogie;
Whene'er the totums cry for meat,
She curses ay his coggie:
Crying, Wae betide the three-gir'd cog!
Oh, wae betide the coggie!
It does mair skaith than a' the ills
That happen in Stra'bogie.
She fand him ance at Willie Sharp's;
And what they maist did laugh at,
She brak the bicker, spilt the drink,
And tightly gowff'd his haffet:
Crying, Wae betide the three-gir'd cog!
Oh, wae betide the coggie
It does mair skaith than a' the ills
That happen in Stra'bogie.
Yet here's to ilka honest soul,
Wha'll drink wi' me a coggie;
And for ilk silly whingin fool,
We'll dook him in the bogie;
For I maun hae my coggie, Sirs,
I canna want my coggie;
I wadna gie my three-gir'd cog
For a' the queans in Bogie.
'Twas in that season of the year,
When all things gay and sweet appear,
That Colin, with the morning ray,
Arose and sung his rural lay.
Of Nannie's charms the shepherd sung,
The hills and dales with Nannie rung;
While Roslin castle heard the swain,
And echoed back the cheerful strain.
Awake, sweet Muse! the breathing spring
With rapture warms, awake and sing!
Awake and join the vocal throng,
Who hail the morning with a song:
To Nannie raise the cheerful lay;
O! bid her haste and come away;
In sweetest smiles herself adorn,
And add new graces to the morn!
O hark, my love! on ev'ry spray,
Each feather'd warbler tunes his lay;
'Tis beauty fires the ravish'd throng,
And love inspires the melting song:
Then let my raptur'd notes arise,
For beauty darts from Nannie's eyes,
And love my rising bosom warms,
And fills my soul with sweet alarms.
O come, my love! thy Colin's lay
With rapture calls, O come away!
Come, while the Muse this wreath shall twine
Around that modest brow of thine.
O! hither haste, and with thee bring
That beauty blooming like the spring,
Those graces that divinely shine,
And charm this ravish'd breast of mine! *
THE SPINNING O'T.
TUNE-" Rock and wee pickle tow."
Now Sandy, the winter's cauld blasts are awa,
And simmer, we've seen the beginning o't;
I've lang been wearied o' frost and o' snaw,
And sair hae 1 tir'd o' the spinning o't:
* It appears that these beautiful verses were the production of RICHARD HEWIT, a young man that Dr. BLACKLOCK kept for some years as an amanuensis. He was a native of Cumberland, and was taken, when a boy, during the Doctor's residence in that quarter, to lead him. He addressed a copy of verses to the Doctor on quitting his service.-Among them are the following lines:
"How oft these plains I've thoughtless prest;
Whistled or sung some Fair distrest,
When fate would steal a tear."
"Alluding," as it is said in a note, "to a sort of narrative songs, which make no inconsiderable part of the innocent amusements with which the country people pass the wintry nights, and of which the author of the present piece was a faithful rehearser."-Blacklock's Poems.
For when we were married our cleeding was thin,
And poortith, ye ken, made me eident to spin,
'Twas fain love o' you that first gart me begin,
And blessings hae followed the spinning o't.
When mornings were cauld, and the keen frost and snaw
Ware blawin', I mind the beginning o't,
And ye gaed to wark, be it frost or be't thaw,
My task was nae less at the spinning o't:
But now we've a pantry baith muckle and fu'
O' ilka thing gude for to gang in the mou';
A barrel o' ale, wi' some maut for to brew,
To mak us forget the beginning o't.
And when winter comes back, wi' the snell hail and rain,
Nae mair I sit down to the spinning o't,
Nor you gang to toil in the cauld fields again,
As little think on the beginning o't:
O' sheep we hae scores, and o' kye twenty-five,
Far less we hae seen wad made us fu' blythe;
But thrift and industry maks poor fouk to thrive,
A clear proof o' that is the spinning o't.
Altho' at our marriage our stock was but sma',
And heartless and hard the beginning o't,
When ye was engaged the owsen to ca',
And first my young skill tried the spinning o't;
But now we can dress in our plaidies sae sma',
Fu' neat and fu' clean gae to kirk or to ha',
And look ay as blythe as the best o' them a',
Sic luck has been o' the beginning o't.
THE FRIEND THAT'S AWA.
THE winter sat lang on the spring o' the year,
Our seed-time was late, and our mailing was dear;
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