Nocht's to be gain'd at woman's hand,
Unless ye gi'e her a' the plea;
Then I'll leave aff where I began,
And tak' my auld cloak about me.
The Barring o' the Door.
[This was recovered by David Herd, and published in the second edition of his collection, 1776. There is an old song called "Johnnie Blunt," which resembles the present one in its subject, but is somewhat too coarse for extract.]
It fell about the Martinmas time,
And a gay time it was than,
When our gudewife got puddings to mak',
And she boil'd them in the pan.
The wind sae cauld blew south and north,
And blew into the floor:
Quoth our gudeman, to our gudewife,
"Gae out and bar the door."
"My hand is in my hussy'f skap,
Gudeman, as ye may see,
An' it shou'd nae be barr'd this hundred year,
It's no be barr'd for me."
They made a paction 'tween them twa,
They made it firm and sure;
That the first word whae'er shou'd speak,
Shou'd rise and bar the door.
Then by there came twa gentlemen,
At twelve o'clock at night,
And they could neither see house nor hall,
Nor coal nor candle light.
Now, whether is this a rich man's house,
Or whether is it a poor?
But never a word wad ane o' them speak,
For barring o' the door.
And first they ate the white puddings
And then they ate the black
Tho' muckle thought the gudewife to hersel',
Yet ne'er a word she spak'.
Then said the one unto the other,
"Here, man, tak' ye my knife,
Do ye tak' aff the auld man's beard,
And I'll kiss the gudewife."
"But there's nae water in the house,
And what shall we do than?"
"What ails ye at the puddin' broo,
That boils into the pan."
O up then started our gudeman,
And an angry man was he;
"Will ye kiss my wife before my een,
And scad me wi' pudding bree?"
Then up and started our gudewife,
Gied three skips on the floor:
"Gudeman, ye've spoken the foremost word,
Get up and bar the door."
Tam Glen.
[This charming song was written by Burns for Johnson's Museum, where it is set to an old air called "Tam Glen." It is also sung to the air called "The mucking o' Geordie's byre."]
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 thinkin', wi' sic a braw fallow,
In puirtith we micht mak' a fen'
What care I in riches to wallow,
If I maunna marry Tam Glen?
There's Lowrie, the laird o' Drumeller,
"Gude day to you," brute! he comes ben;
He brags and he blaw s 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'll gie me gude hunder merks ten;
But, if it's ordain'd I maun tak' him,
O, wha will I get but Tam Glen?
Yestreen, at the Valentine's dealin',
My heart to my mou' gied a sten;
For thrice I drew ane without failin',
And thrice it was written—Tam Glen.
