Wi' sic thoughts i' my mind,
Time through the world may gae,
And find my heart in twenty years
The same as 'tis to-day.
'Tis thoughts that bind the soul,
And keep friends i' the e'e;
And gin I think I see thee aye,
What can part thee and me!
The Toom Pouch.
[Taken down from the singing of Jamie, a natural who frequents the watering places of Dunblane and Bridge of Allan. We know not who is the author of the song, nor whether it has been before printed.—Air, "The auld mans mare's dead."]
O weary on the toom pouch,
It shames us a' the toom pouch;
Sic times as we ha'e aften seen,
Make mony a waefu' toom pouch.
Of a' the ills in life's career,
The want o' bread and beef and beer,
The taunt o' men, and women's jeer—
The greatest is the toom pouch.
O weary on, &c.
An empty purse is slighted sair,
Gang ye to market, kirk, or fair,
Ye'll no be muckle thought o' there
Gin ye gang wi' a toom pouch.
O weary on, &c.
An empty purse is ill to wear,
An empty rurse is ill to share,
E'en lovers' friendship canna bear
To hear ought o' a toom pouch.
O weary on, &c.
But O, ye lasses blythe and clean,
Just let me tell ye as a frien',
Whene'er you meet your lads at e'en,
Be canny on the toom pouch.
O weary on, &c.
For fegs! the times are no the thing
To mak' our merry taverns ring;
And wha the deil could dance and sing
Gin pester'd wi' a toom pouch?
O weary on, &c.
Sae dinna ca' your laddie shy,
And dinna say he's cauld and dry,
And dinna speak o' sweeties.—Fie!
Be mindfu' o' the toom pouch.
O weary on, &c.
For kind may be his heart and true,
And weel and warmly may he lo'e,
And fondly kiss your cherry mou',
Although he wears a toom pouch.
O weary on, &c.
But may be times will mend a wee,
When twa may venture to be three;
But, gudesake, lasses! ne'er agree
To marry wi' a toom pouch.
O weary on, &c.
The bricht Star.
[Alexander Keay, a ploughman in the Kingsmuir, Fifeshire. Air, "The bonnie hawthorn."—Here first printed.]
The bricht star o' e'enin' peep'd forth frae the sky,
The winds were a' hush'd,—not a mortal was nigh,
When Jenny walk'd forth 'mid the primroses pale,
And pour'd her fond plaint in the sweet lovely vale.
"Ye fairies that dance in yon wild lonely dell,
Whose drink is the dew frae the sweet flow'rets bell,
Whose food is the incense that's borne on the gale
From the primrose and hawthorn that bloom in the vale.
"O say, have you seen a young swain passing by,
With health on his cheek, and with love in his eye:
Detain the fond youth—now his sighs shall prevail
With the maid he oft woo'd in the sweet flow'ry vale.
"O sweet smells the bean in the saft summer shower,
And sweet sings the merle in his green leafy bower;
But sweeter to me is my fond lover's tale,
Where the primrose and hawthorn bloom sweet in the vale."
