John Anderson,my jo,John,We clamb the hill thegither;And mony a cantie day,John,We've had wi'ane anither:
Now we maun totter down,John,And hand in hand we'll go,And sleep thegither at the foot,John Anderson,my jo.
My Love,She's But A Lassie Yet My love,she's but a lassie yet,My love,she's but a lassie yet;We'll let her stand a year or twa,She'll no be half sae saucy yet;I rue the day I sought her,O!
I rue the day I sought her,O!
Wha gets her needs na say she's woo'd,But he may say he's bought her,O.
Come,draw a drap o'the best o't yet,Come,draw a drap o'the best o't yet,Gae seek for pleasure whare you will,But here I never miss'd it yet,We're a'dry wi'drinkin o't,We're a'dry wi'drinkin o't;The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife;
He could na preach for thinkin o't.
song-Tam Glen My heart is a-breaking,dear Tittie,Some counsel unto me come len',To anger them a'is a pity,But what will I do wi'Tam Glen?
I'm thinking,wi'sic a braw fellow,In poortith I might mak a fen;What care I in riches to wallow,If I maunna marry Tam Glen!
There's Lowrie the Laird o'Dumeller-
"Gude day to you,brute!"he comes ben:
He brags and he blaws o'his siller,But when will he dance like Tam Glen!
My minnie does constantly deave me,And bids me beware o'young men;They flatter,she says,to deceive me,But wha can think sae o'Tam Glen!
My daddie says,gin I'll forsake him,He'd gie me gude hunder marks ten;But,if it's ordain'd I maun take him,O wha will I get but Tam Glen!
Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing,My heart to my mou'gied a sten';For thrice I drew ane without failing,And thrice it was written "Tam Glen"!
The last Halloween I was waukin My droukit sark-sleeve,as ye ken,His likeness came up the house staukin,And the very grey breeks o'Tam Glen!
Come,counsel,dear Tittie,don't tarry;
I'll gie ye my bonie black hen,Gif ye will advise me to marry The lad I lo'e dearly,Tam Glen.
Carle,An The King Come Chorus.-Carle,an the King come,Carle,an the King come,Thou shalt dance and I will sing,Carle,an the King come.
An somebody were come again,Then somebody maun cross the main,And every man shall hae his ain,Carle,an the King come.
Carle,an the King come,&c.
I trow we swapped for the worse,We gae the boot and better horse;And that we'll tell them at the cross,Carle,an the King come.
Carle,an the King come,&c.
Coggie,an the King come,Coggie,an the King come,I'se be fou,and thou'se be toom Coggie,an the King come.
Coggie,an the King come,&c.
The Laddie's Dear Sel'
There's a youth in this city,it were a great pity That he from our lassies should wander awa';For he's bonie and braw,weel-favor'd witha',An'his hair has a natural buckle an'a'.
His coat is the hue o'his bonnet sae blue,His fecket is white as the new-driven snaw;His hose they are blae,and his shoon like the slae,And his clear siller buckles,they dazzle us a'.
For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin;Weel-featur'd,weel-tocher'd,weel-mounted an'braw;But chiefly the siller that gars him gang till her,The penny's the jewel that beautifies a'.
There's Meg wi'the mailen that fain wad a haen him,And Susie,wha's daddie was laird o'the Ha';There's lang-tocher'd Nancy maist fetters his fancy,-But the laddie's dear sel',he loes dearest of a'.
Whistle O'er The Lave O't First when Maggie was my care,Heav'n,I thought,was in her air,Now we're married-speir nae mair,But whistle o'er the lave o't!
Meg was meek,and Meg was mild,Sweet and harmless as a child-Wiser men than me's beguil'd;
Whistle o'er the lave o't!
How we live,my Meg and me,How we love,and how we gree,I care na by how few may see-Whistle o'er the lave o't!
Wha I wish were maggot's meat,Dish'd up in her winding-sheet,I could write-but Meg maun see't-Whistle o'er the lave o't!
My Eppie Adair Chorus.-An'O my Eppie,my jewel,my Eppie,Wha wad na be happy wi'Eppie Adair?
By love,and by beauty,by law,and by duty,I swear to be true to my Eppie Adair!
By love,and by beauty,by law,and by duty,I swear to be true to my Eppie Adair!
And O my Eppie,&c.
A'pleasure exile me,dishonour defile me,If e'er I beguile ye,my Eppie Adair!
A'pleasure exile me,dishonour defile me,If e'er I beguile thee,my Eppie Adair!
And O my Eppie,&c.
On The Late Captain Grose's Peregrinations Thro'Scotland Collecting The Antiquities Of That Kingdom Hear,Land o'Cakes,and brither Scots,Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groat's;-If there's a hole in a'your coats,I rede you tent it:
A chield's amang you takin notes,And,faith,he'll prent it:
If in your bounds ye chance to light Upon a fine,fat fodgel wight,O'stature short,but genius bright,That's he,mark weel;And wow!he has an unco sleight O'cauk and keel.
By some auld,houlet-haunted biggin,Or kirk deserted by its riggin,It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in Some eldritch part,Wi'deils,they say,Lord save's!colleaguin At some black art.
Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha'or chaumer,Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamour,And you,deep-read in hell's black grammar,Warlocks and witches,Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer,Ye midnight bitches.
It's tauld he was a sodger bred,And ane wad rather fa'n than fled;But now he's quat the spurtle-blade,And dog-skin wallet,And taen the-Antiquarian trade,I think they call it.
He has a fouth o'auld nick-nackets:
Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets,Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets,A towmont gude;And parritch-pats and auld saut-backets,Before the Flood.
Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder;
Auld Tubalcain's fire-shool and fender;
That which distinguished the gender O'Balaam's ass:
A broomstick o'the witch of Endor,Weel shod wi'brass.
Forbye,he'll shape you aff fu'gleg The cut of Adam's philibeg;The knife that nickit Abel's craig He'll prove you fully,It was a faulding jocteleg,Or lang-kail gullie.
But wad ye see him in his glee,For meikle glee and fun has he,Then set him down,and twa or three Gude fellows wi'him:
And port,O port!shine thou a wee,And Then ye'll see him!
Now,by the Pow'rs o'verse and prose!
Thou art a dainty chield,O Grose!-
Whae'er o'thee shall ill suppose,They sair misca'thee;I'd take the rascal by the nose,Wad say,"Shame fa'thee!"Epigram On Francis Grose The Antiquary The Devil got notice that Grose was a-dying So whip!at the summons,old Satan came flying;But when he approached where poor Francis lay moaning,And saw each bed-post with its burthen a-groaning,Astonish'd,confounded,cries Satan-"By God,I'll want him,ere I take such a damnable load!"The Kirk Of Scotland's Alarm A Ballad.
tune-"Come rouse,Brother Sportsman!"
Orthodox!orthodox,who believe in John Knox,Let me sound an alarm to your conscience:
A heretic blast has been blown in the West,"That what is no sense must be nonsense,"Orthodox!That what is no sense must be nonsense.
Doctor Mac!Doctor Mac,you should streek on a rack,To strike evil-doers wi'terror:
To join Faith and Sense,upon any pretence,Was heretic,damnable error,Doctor Mac!^1'Twas heretic,damnable error.
Town of Ayr!town of Ayr,it was mad,I declare,To meddle wi'mischief a-brewing,^2Provost John^3is still deaf to the Church's relief,And Orator Bob^4is its ruin,Town of Ayr!Yes,Orator Bob is its ruin.
D'rymple mild!D'rymple mild,tho'your heart's like a child,And your life like the new-driven snaw,Yet that winna save you,auld Satan must have you,For preaching that three's ane an'twa,D'rymple mild!^5For preaching that three's ane an'twa.
Rumble John!rumble John,mount the steps with a groan,Cry the book is with heresy cramm'd;Then out wi'your ladle,deal brimstone like aidle,And roar ev'ry note of the damn'd.
Rumble John!^6And roar ev'ry note of the damn'd.
[Footnote 1:Dr.M'Gill,Ayr.-R.B,]
[Footnote 2:See the advertisement.-R.B.]
[Footnote 3:John Ballantine,-R.B.]
[Footnote 4:Robert Aiken.-R.B.]
[Footnote 5:Dr.Dalrymple,Ayr.-R.B.]
[Footnote 6:John Russell,Kilmarnock.-R.B.]
Simper James!simper James,leave your fair Killie dames,There's a holier chase in your view:
I'll lay on your head,that the pack you'll soon lead,For puppies like you there's but few,Simper James!^7For puppies like you there's but few.
Singet Sawnie!singet Sawnie,are ye huirdin the penny,Unconscious what evils await?
With a jump,yell,and howl,alarm ev'ry soul,For the foul thief is just at your gate.
Singet Sawnie!^8For the foul thief is just at your gate.
Poet Willie!poet Willie,gie the Doctor a volley,Wi'your "Liberty's Chain"and your wit;O'er Pegasus'side ye ne'er laid a stride,Ye but smelt,man,the place where he sh-t.
Poet Willie!^9Ye but smelt man,the place where he sh-t.
Barr Steenie!Barr Steenie,what mean ye,what mean ye?
If ye meddle nae mair wi'the matter,Ye may hae some pretence to havins and sense,Wi'people that ken ye nae better,Barr Steenie!^10Wi'people that ken ye nae better.
Jamie Goose!Jamie Goose,ye made but toom roose,In hunting the wicked Lieutenant;But the Doctor's your mark,for the Lord's holy ark,He has cooper'd an'ca'd a wrang pin in't,Jamie Goose!^11He has cooper'd an'ca'd a wrang pin in't.
Davie Bluster!Davie Bluster,for a saint ye do muster,The corps is no nice o'recruits;[Footnote 7:James Mackinlay,Kilmarnock.-R.B.]
[Footnote 8:Alexander Moodie of Riccarton.-R.B.]
[Footnote 9:William Peebles,in Newton-upon-Ayr,a poetaster,who,among many other things,published an ode on the "Centenary of the Revolution,"in which was the line:"And bound in Liberty's endering chain."-R.B.]
[Footnote 10:Stephen Young of Barr.-R.B.]
[Footnote 11:James Young,in New Cumnock,who had lately been foiled in an ecclesiastical prosecution against a Lieutenant Mitchel-R.B.]
Yet to worth let's be just,royal blood ye might boast,If the Ass were the king o'the brutes,Davie Bluster!^12If the Ass were the king o'the brutes.
Irvine Side!Irvine Side,wi'your turkey-cock pride Of manhood but sma'is your share:
Ye've the figure,'tis true,ev'n your foes will allow,And your friends they dare grant you nae mair,Irvine Side!^13And your friends they dare grant you nae mair.
Muirland Jock!muirland Jock,when the Lord makes a rock,To crush common-sense for her sins;If ill-manners were wit,there's no mortal so fit To confound the poor Doctor at ance,Muirland Jock!^14To confound the poor Doctor at ance.
Andro Gowk!Andro Gowk,ye may slander the Book,An'the Book nought the waur,let me tell ye;Tho'ye're rich,an'look big,yet,lay by hat an'wig,An'ye'll hae a calf's-had o'sma'value,Andro Gowk!^15Ye'll hae a calf's head o'sma value.
Daddy Auld!daddy Auld,there'a a tod in the fauld,A tod meikle waur than the clerk;Tho'ye do little skaith,ye'll be in at the death,For gif ye canna bite,ye may bark,Daddy Auld!^16Gif ye canna bite,ye may bark.
Holy Will!holy Will,there was wit in your skull,When ye pilfer'd the alms o'the poor;The timmer is scant when ye're taen for a saunt,Wha should swing in a **** for an hour,Holy Will!^17Ye should swing in a **** for an hour.
Calvin's sons!Calvin's sons,seize your spiritual guns,Ammunition you never can need;[Footnote 12:David Grant,Ochiltree.-R.B.]
[Footnote 13:George Smith,Galston.-R.B.]
[Footnote 14:John Shepherd Muirkirk.-R.B.]
[Footnote 15:Dr.Andrew Mitchel,Monkton.-R.B.]
[Footnote 16:William Auld,Mauchline;for the clerk,see "Holy Willie"s Prayer."-R.B.]
[Footnote 17:Vide the "Prayer"of this saint.-R.B.]
Your hearts are the stuff will be powder enough,And your skulls are a storehouse o'lead,Calvin's sons!Your skulls are a storehouse o'lead.
Poet Burns!poet Burns,wi"your priest-skelpin turns,Why desert ye your auld native shire?
Your muse is a gipsy,yet were she e'en tipsy,She could ca'us nae waur than we are,Poet Burns!She could ca'us nae waur than we are.
Presentation Stanzas To Correspondents Factor John!Factor John,whom the Lord made alone,And ne'er made anither,thy peer,Thy poor servant,the Bard,in respectful regard,He presents thee this token sincere,Factor John!He presents thee this token sincere.
Afton's Laird!Afton's Laird,when your pen can be spared,A copy of this I bequeath,On the same sicker score as I mention'd before,To that trusty auld worthy,Clackleith,Afton's Laird!To that trusty auld worthy,Clackleith.
Sonnet On Receiving A Favour 10Aug.,1979.
Addressed to Robert Graham,Esq.of Fintry.
I call no Goddess to inspire my strains,A fabled Muse may suit a bard that feigns:
Friend of my life!my ardent spirit burns,And all the tribute of my heart returns,For boons accorded,goodness ever new,The gifts still dearer,as the giver you.
Thou orb of day!thou other paler light!
And all ye many sparkling stars of night!
If aught that giver from my mind efface,If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace,Then roll to me along your wand'rig spheres,Only to number out a villain's years!
I lay my hand upon my swelling breast,And grateful would,but cannot speak the rest.
Extemporaneous Effusion On being appointed to an Excise division.
Searching auld wives'barrels,Ochon the day!
That clarty barm should stain my laurels:
But-what'll ye say?
These movin'things ca'd wives an'weans,Wad move the very hearts o'stanes!
Song -Willie Brew'd A Peck O'Maut^1
O Willie brew'd a peck o'maut,And Rob and Allen cam to see;Three blyther hearts,that lee-lang night,Ye wadna found in Christendie.
Chorus.-We are na fou,we're nae that fou,But just a drappie in our ee;The cock may craw,the day may daw And aye we'll taste the barley bree.
Here are we met,three merry boys,Three merry boys I trow are we;And mony a night we've merry been,And mony mae we hope to be!
We are na fou,&c.
It is the moon,I ken her horn,That's blinkin'in the lift sae hie;She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,But,by my sooth,she'll wait a wee!
We are na fou,&c.
Wha first shall rise to gang awa,A cuckold,coward loun is he!
Wha first beside his chair shall fa',He is the King amang us three.
We are na fou,&c.
[Footnote 1:Willie is Nicol,Allan is Masterton the writing-master.The scene is between Moffat and the head of the Loch of the Lowes.Date,August-September,1789.-Lang.]
Ca'The Yowes To The Knowes Chorus.-Ca'the yowes to the knowes,Ca'them where the heather grows,Ca'them where the burnie rowes,My bonie dearie As I gaed down the water-side,There I met my shepherd lad:
He row'd me sweetly in his plaid,And he ca'd me his dearie.
Ca'the yowes,&c.
Will ye gang down the water-side,And see the waves sae sweetly glide Beneath the hazels spreading wide,The moon it shines fu'clearly.
Ca'the yowes,&c.
Ye sall get gowns and ribbons meet,Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet,And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep,An'ye sall be my dearie.
Ca'the yowes,&c.
If ye'll but stand to what ye've said,I'se gang wi'thee,my shepherd lad,And ye may row me in your plaid,And I sall be your dearie.
Ca'the yowes,&c.
While waters wimple to the sea,While day blinks in the lift sae hie,Till clay-cauld death sall blin'my e'e,Ye sall be my dearie.
Ca'the yowes,&c.
I Gaed A Waefu'Gate Yestreen I gaed a waefu'gate yestreen,A gate,I fear,I'll dearly rue;I gat my death frae twa sweet een,Twa lovely een o'bonie blue.
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright,Her lips like roses wat wi'dew,Her heaving bosom,lily-white-It was her een sae bonie blue.
She talk'd,she smil'd,my heart she wyl'd;She charm'd my soul I wist na how;
And aye the stound,the deadly wound,Cam frae her een so bonie blue.
But "spare to speak,and spare to speed;"She'll aiblins listen to my vow:
Should she refuse,I'll lay my dead To her twa een sae bonie blue.
Highland Harry Back Again My Harry was a gallant gay,Fu'stately strade he on the plain;But now he's banish'd far away,I'll never see him back again.
Chorus.-O for him back again!
O for him back again!
I wad gie a'Knockhaspie's land For Highland Harry back again.
When a'the lave gae to their bed,I wander dowie up the glen;I set me down and greet my fill,And aye I wish him back again.
O for him,&c.
O were some villains hangit high,And ilka body had their ain!
Then I might see the joyfu'sight,My Highland Harry back again.
O for him,&c.
The Battle Of Sherramuir tune-"The Cameronian Rant.""O cam ye here the fight to shun,Or herd the sheep wi'me,man?
Or were ye at the Sherra-moor,Or did the battle see,man?"I saw the battle,sair and teugh,And reekin-red ran mony a sheugh;My heart,for fear,gaed sough for sough,To hear the thuds,and see the cluds O'clans frae woods,in tartan duds,Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three,man.
La,la,la,la,&c.
The red-coat lads,wi'black cockauds,To meet them were na slaw,man;They rush'd and push'd,and blude outgush'd And mony a bouk did fa',man: