When broken, frae care
The fools are set free,
When we mak' them lairds
In the Abbey, quo' she.
Henry.
[James Stirrat of Dairy, Ayrshire.—Air, "Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch."—Here printed for the first time.]
Can my dearest Henry leave me?
Why, ah! why would he deceive me?
Whence this cold and cruel change,
That bids him thus forsake and grieve me?
Can he the hours of love forget,
The stolen hours I'll mind for ever,
When doun the burn we fondly met,
And aften vow'd we ne'er should sever?
Will my Henry then deceive me?
Faithless laddie! can he leave me?
Ne'er till now did fancy dream,
My dearest laddie sae would grieve me.
And will he then me aye forsake?
Must I for ever, ever lose him?
And can he leave this heart to break,
That swells and bursts within my bosom?
Never, Henry, could I leave thee,
Never could this heart deceive thee;
Why then, laddie, me forsake,
And sae wi' cruel absence grieve me?
Cock up your beaver.
[The tune called "Cock up your beaver" is old: it can be traced at least as far back as Playford's "Dancing-Master" published in 1657. Of the original words, the first stanza here given is all that remains: the second stanza was added by Burns for Johnson's Museum. Hogg gives some additional verses in his Jacobite Relics.]
When first my brave Johnnie lad
Came to this town,
He had a blue bonnet
That wanted the crown;
But now he has gotten
A hat and a feather,—
Hey, brave Johnnie lad,
Cock up your beaver!
Cock up your beaver,
And cock it fu' sprush,
We'll over the border
And gi'e them a brush;
There's somebody there
We'll teach better behaviour—
Hey, brave Johnnie lad,
Cock up your beaver!
Jenny dang the Weaver.
[Sir A. Boswell, Bart.]
At Willie's wedding on the green,
The lasses, bonnie witches,
Were a dress'd out in aprons clean,
And braw white Sunday mutches:
Auld Maggie bade the lads tak' tent,
But Jock would not believe her;
But soon the fool his folly kent,
For Jenny dang the Weaver.
And Jenny dang, Jenny dang,
Jenny dang the Weaver;
But soon the fool his folly kent,
For Jenny dang the Weaver.
At ilka country dance or reel,
Wi' her he would be bobbing;
When she sat down—he sat down,
And to her would be gabbing;
Where'er she gaed baith butt and ben,
The coof would never leave her;
Aye kecklin' like a clocking hen,
But Jenny dang the Weaver.
Jenny dang, &c.
Quo' he, My lass, to speak my mind,
In troth I needna swither;
You've bonnie een, and if you're kind,
I'll never seek anither:
He humm'd and haw'd, the lass cried Peugh!
And bade the coof no deave her;
Syne snapt her fingers, lap and leugh,
And dang the silly weaver.
And Jenny dang, Jenny dang,
Jenny dang the Weaver;
Syne snapt her fingers, lap and leugh,
And dang the silly Weaver.
