"Now haud ye merry," quo' Windlestraetown,
"I downa come here your sport to spill,—
Rax down the nits, ye unco like loon,
For though I am auld, I am gleesome still:
An' Lilias, my pet, to burn wi' me,
Ye winna be sweer, right weel I ween,
However it gangs my fate I'll dree,
Since here I am haudin' my Hallowe'en."
The pawky auld wife, at the chimly-cheek,
Took courage an' spak', as a mither should do;
"Noo baud up yere head, my dochter meek,—
A laird comesna here ilk night to woo!
He'll mak' you a lady, and that right soon,
I dreamt it twice owre, I'm sure, yestreen."—
"A bargain be't," quo' Windlestraetown,—
"It's lucky to book on Hallowe'en!"
"I'll stick by the nits, for better, for waur,—
Will ye do the like, my bonny May?
Ye sall shine at my board like the gloamin' star,
An' gowd in gowpins ye's ha'e for aye!" —
The nits are cannilie laid on the ingle,
Weel, weel are they tented wi' anxious e'en;
And sweetlie in ase thegither they mingle:
"Not blessed for aye be this Hallowe'en!"
I neither gat.
[From "The Edinburgh Literary Gazette," vol. II. 1830.—Air, "Laird o' Cockpen."]
I neither gat plenishing, sillar, nor land,
Wi' the bonny wee lassie that ga'e me her hand;
But I gat a kind heart, and lovely black e'e,
And that was worth manors and mailings to me.
I might had a wife wi' a boarding school air,
Bedizen'd wi' trinkets and pearlins sae rare;
A weel stockit purse, and a lang pedigree,—
But these without true love, wad ne'er suited me.
Commend me to Jeanie, there's grace in her air,
And purity reigns in her bosom sae fair;
The tones of her voice and the blink of her e'e,
And her smile sae bewitching are treasure to me.
When absent frae her, how my bliss is impair'd,
Tho' I dine wi' the leddies, and drink wi' the laird;
But to meet her again, and her sweet bairnies three,
Is worth mailings, and manors, and kingdoms to me.
Donald of Dundee.
Young Donald is the blythest lad
That e'er made love to me;
Whene'er he's by my heart is glad,
He seems so gay and free;
Then on his pipe he plays so sweet,
And in his plaid he looks so neat,
It cheers my heart at eve to meet
Young Donald of Dundee.
Whene'er I gang to yonder grove,
Young Sandy follows me,
And fain he wants to be my love,
But ah! it canna be.
Though mither frets both air an' late,
For me to wed this youth I hate;
There's none need hope to gain young Kate
But Donald of Dundee.
When last we rang'd the banks of Tay,
The ring he show'd to me,
And bade me name the bridal-day,
Then happy wou'd he be.
I ken the youth will aye prove kind,
Nae mair my mither will I mind,
Mess John to me shall quickly bind
Young Donald of Dundee.
The Lass o' Isla.
[Sir Alex. Boswell, Bart.]
"Ah, Mary, sweetest maid, farewell!
My hopes are flown, for a's to wreck;
Heav'n guard you, love, and heal your heart.
Though mine, alas, alas! maun break"—
"Dearest lad, what ills betide?
Is Willie to his love untrue?
Engag'd the morn to be his bride,
Ah! ha'e ye, ha'e ye ta'en the rue?"
"Ye canna wear a ragged gown.
Or beggar wed, wi' nought ava;
My kye are drown'd, my house is down
My last sheep lies aneath the snaw"-
