Nae herds wi' kent or colly there,
Shall ever come to fear ye, O;
Bat laverocks whistling in the air
Shall woo, like me, their dearie, O.
While ithers herd their lambs and ewes,
And toil for warld's gear, my jo,
Upon the lee my pleasure grows
Wi' thee, my kind dearie, O.
At gloamin', if my lane I be,
Oh, but I'm wondrous eerie, O:
And mony a heavy sigh I gi'e,
When absent frae my dearie, O;
But seated 'neath the milk-white thorn,
In ev'ning fair and clearie, O,
Enraptur'd, a' my cares I scorn,
When wi' my kind dearie, O.
Whare through the birks the burnie rows,
Aft ha'e I sat fu' cheerie, O,
Upon the bonnie greensward howes,
Wi' thee, my kind dearie, O.
I've courted till I've heard the craw
Of honest Chanticleerie, O,
Yet never miss'd my sleep ava,
Whan wi' my kind dearie, O.
For though the night were ne'er sae dark,
And I were ne'er sae weary, O,
I'd meet thee on the lea rig,
My ain kind dearie, O.
While in this weary warld of wae,
This wilderness sae dreary, O,
What makes me blythe, and keeps me sae?
'Tis thee, my kind dearie, O.
Bide ye yet.
[This lively little song first appeared in Herd's Collection, 1769. Its author is unknown. Of late years Mr. Mackay, the comedian, has been instrumental in rendering it a general favourite. In the edition of Herd's Collection, 1776, there is a set of verses to the same tune, written by Miss Janet Graham, and entitled The Wayward Wife.]
Gin I had a wee house, an' a canty wee fire,
An' a bonnie wee wifie to praise and admire,
Wi' a bonnie wee yardie aside a wee burn,
Fareweel to the bodies that yaumer and mourn.
Sae bide ye yet, an' bide ye yet;
Ye little ken what's to betide ye yet;
Some bonnie wee body may fa' to my lot,
An' I'll aye be canty wi' thinkin' o't.
When I gang a-field, an' come hame at e'en,
I'll get my wee wifie fu' neat an' fu' clean,
Wi' a bonnie wee bairnie upon her knee,
That'll cry papa or daddy to me.
Sae bide ye yet, &c.
An' if there should ever happen to be
A difference atween my wee wifie and me,
In hearty good humour, altho' she be teased,
I'll kiss her an' clap her until she be pleased.
Sae bide ye yet, &c.
Bonnie Chirsty.
[This song is by Allan Ramsay. It was probably a favourite of the author's, as it is placed first in his Tea Table Miscellany.]
How sweetly smells the simmer green;
Sweet taste the peach and cherry;
Painting and order please our een,
And claret makes us merry:
But finest colours, fruits and flowers,
And wine, though I be thirsty,
Lose a' their charms, and weaker powers,
Compar'd wi' those of Chirsty.
When wand'ring o'er the flow'ry park,
No natural beauty wanting;
How lightsome is't to hear the lark,
And birds in concert chanting!
But if my Chirsty tunes her voice,
I'm rapt in admiration;
My thoughts wi' ecstasies rejoice,
And drap the haill creation.
Whene'er she smiles a kindly glance,
I take the happy omen,
And aften mint to make advance,
Hoping she'll prove a woman.
But, dubious of my ain desert,
My sentiments I smother,
Wi' secret sighs I vex my heart,
For fear she love another.
