But cout wad let naebody steer him,
He aye was sae wanton and skeigh;
The packmen's stands he overturned them,
And garred a' the Jocks stand abeigh;
Wi' sneerin' behind and before him,
For sic is the mettle o' brutes,
Puir Wattie, and wae's me for him.
Was fain to gang hame in his boots.
Now it was late in the e'ening,
And boughting-time was drawing near;
The lasses had stanched their greening
Wi' fouth o braw apples and beer.
There was Lillie, and Tibbie, and Sibbie,
And Ceicy on the spindle could spin,
Stood glowrin' at signs and glass winnocks,
But deil a ane bade them come in.
Gude guide us! saw ye e'er the like o't?
See, yonder's a bonnie black swan;
It glow'rs as it wad fain be at us;
What's yon that it hauds in its hand?
Awa', daft gowk, cries Wattie,
They're a' but a ruckle o' sticks;
See, there is Bill-Jock and auld Hawkie,
And yonder's Mess John and auld Nick.
Quoth Maggie, Come buy us our fairin';
And Wattie richt sleely could tell,
I think thou'rt the flower o' the clachan,—
In trowth, now, I'se gi'e thee mysell.
But wha wad ha' e'er thocht it o' him,
That e'er he had rippled the lint?
Sae proud was he o' his Maggie,
Though she was baith scaulie and squint.
Slichtit Nancy.
[This appears in the first vol. of Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany (1724) without any mark. The reader will discover in it the origin of the English song, "Nobody coming to marry me." It is given in Ramsay to the tune of "Kirk wad let me be."]
It's I ha'e seven braw new gouns,
And ither seven better to mak';
And yet, for a' my new gouns,
My wooer has turn'd his back.
Besides, I have seven milk-kye,
And Sandy he has but three;
And yet, for a' my gude kye,
The laddie winna ha'e me.
My daddie's a delver o' dykes,
My mother can card and spin,
And I'm a fine fodgel lass,
And the siller comes linkin' in;
The siller comes linkin' in,
And it is fu' fair to see,
And fifty times, wow! O wow!
What ails the lads at me?
Whenever our Bawty does bark,
Then fast to the door I rin,
To see gin ony young spark
Will licht and venture but in;
But never a ane will come in,
Though mony a ane gaes by;
Syne ben the house I rin,
And a weary wicht am I.
When I was at my first prayers,
I pray'd but anes i' the year,
I wish'd for a handsome young lad,
And a lad wi' muckle gear.
When I was at my neist prayers,
I pray'd but now and then,
I fash'd na my head about gear,
If I got a handsome young man.
Now I am at my last prayers,
I pray on baith nicht and day,
And, oh, if a beggar wad come,
With that same beggar I'd gae.
And, oh, and what'll come o' me:
And, oh, and what'll I do!
That sic a braw lassie as I
Should die for a wooer, I trow!
The winter sat lang.
[By J. Mayne, author of "Logan Braes." See page 24.]
The winter sat lang on the spring o' the year,
Our seedtime was late, and our mailing was dear;
My mither tint her heart when she look'd on us a',
And we thought upon them that were farest awa';
O! were they but here that are farest awa'!
O! were they but here that are dear to us a'!
Our cares would seem light and our sorrows but sma'.
If they were but here that are far frae us a'!
