"How daur ye tak' sic freedoms here?"
The bauld gudewife began,
Wi' that a foursome yell gat up,
I to my heels an' ran;
A besom whiskit by my lug,
An' dishclouts half a score,
Catch me again, though fidgin' fain,
At kissin' 'hint the door.
There's meikle bliss, &c.
The Prince's Street Beau.
[Thomas C. Latto.—Tune, "The Mistletoe Bough."—Here first printed.]
Young lawyer Tom was the pride of the ball;
His waistcoat shone like a white-wash'd wall;
And though his retainers were small and few,
His credit seem'd good, for his coat was new.
The ladies all sigh'd, "Oh la! what a dear!"
And in truth he looked spruce as a bottle of beer.
O, the rogue with his bright boots aimed to be
A moving mirror of gallantry!
O the Prince's street beau!
O the Prince's street beau!
At his lodgings arrived, "Ah dimmit," he yawn'd,
"I fear it's all up, for my shirts are pawn'd,
And crucify me, if I know what to do,
To pay my last trousers, my hat, and surtout.
I've lived on a trotter a week, I am sure,
But of course 'twas my appetite getting 'so poor.'
O (hark in your ear) had mutton been cheap,
I think in the time I had manag'd a—sheep!"
O the Prince's, &c.
Next morning, when combing his whiskers, he cried,
"I must vanish by twilight, but where shall I hide?
Snip thinks he is up to a trifle or so,
But I'm bless'd if I leave him a string to his beau!"
Away he flew, and his landlord look'd blue,
Three bailiffs are started, our friend to pursue,
And the tailor scream'd, "He promised to pay
The 'dentical hour that he cut away."
O the Prince's, &c.
They sought him that night, and they sought him next day,
And they sought him in vain when a week pass'd away;
In the Canongate, Cowgate, all over the town,
Old Cabbage sought wildly, the bird was flown,
And years flew by, he was neatly done,
Yet the beau, though he managed his clutchets to shun,
At times hove in sight, when each imp shouted, "Beaus
Should never forget to pay their clo's!"
O the Prince's, &c.
At length a live bundle of rags was seen
In a field of barley near Juniper Green:
Can I credit my eyes? 'twas our hero indeed,—
O in running so fast, he had run to seed!
Sad, sad was his fate! be warn'd, ye beaus,
And never forget to pay your "clo's!"
He had hired himself out at a penny a day,
As a bogle to frighten the crows away!
O the Prince's street beau,
The fate of the Prince's street beau!
I wander'd alane.
[Alex. Buchanan.—Air, "Lucy's Flittin."—Here first printed.]
I wander'd alane at the break o' the mornin'—
The dun clouds o' nicht were a' wearin' awa',—
The sun rose in glory, the grey hills adornin',
A' glintin' like gowd were their tappits o' snaw;
Adown by my side row'd the rock-bedded Kelvin,
While nature aroun' was beginnin' to green,
An' auld cottar bodies their yardies were delvin',
Kenin' thrift in the morn brocht pleasure at e'en.
I leant me against an auld mossy clad palin',
An' noo an' then dichted a tear frae my e'e—
I look'd on the bodies, an' envied their toilin'—
Though lowly their lot, they seem'd happy by me.
I thocht on my riches, yet feckless the treasure,
I tried to forget, but the labour was vain;
My wifie an' bairn were a' my life's pleasure,
An' they to the grave baith thegither had gane.
The thochts o' her love had awaken'd my sorrow,
The laugh o' my bairnie cam' back on mine ears,
An' piercin' my heart wi' the force o' an arrow,
