The laird may ha'e gowd mair than schoolmen can reckon,
An' flunkies to watch ilka glance o' his e'e;
His lady, aye braw, may sit in her ha',
But are they mair happy than Janet and me?
A' ye wha ne'er kent the straight road to be happy,
Wha are nae content wi' the lot that ye dree,
Come down to the dwellin' of whilk I've been telling,
Ye'se learn it by looking at Janet an' me!
Bonnie lassie.
[Robert Allan.]
Bonnie lassie, blythsome lassie,
Sweet's the sparkling o' your e'e;
Aye sae wyling, aye beguiling,
Ye ha'e stown my heart frae me.
Fondly wooing, fondly sueing,
Let me love, nor love in vain
Fate shall never fond hearts sever,
Hearts still bound by true love's chain.
Fancy dreaming, hope bright beaming,
Shall each day life's feast renew;
Ours the treasure, ours the pleasure,
Still to live and love more true.
Mirth and folly, joys unholy,
Never shall our thoughts employ;
Smiles inviting, hearts uniting,
Love and bliss without alloy.
Bonnie lassie, blythsome lassie,
Sweet's the sparkling o' your e'e;
Aye sae wyling, aye beguiling,
Ye ha'e stown my heart frae me.
Tak’ it, man, tak’ it.
[The author of this clever song, we believe, belonged to Paisley, where he published a small vol. of poems in 1835. He has since died. His name was David Webster.—Air, "Brose and Butter."]
When I was a miller in Fife,
Losh! I thought that the sound o' the happer
Said, Tak' hame a wee flow to your wife,
To help to be brose to your supper.
Then my conscience was narrow and pure,
But someway by random it rackit;
For I liftet twa neivefu' or mair,
While the happer said, Tak' it, man, tak' it.
Then hey for the mill and the kill,
The garland and gear for my cogie,
And hey for the whiskey and yill,
That washes the dust frae my craigie.
Although it's been lang in repute,
For rogues to make rich by deceiving:
Yet I see that it disna weel suit
Honest men to begin to the thieving.
For my heart it gaed dunt upon dunt,
Od, I thought ilka dunt it wad crackit;
Sae I flang frae my neive what was in't,
Still the happer said, Tak' it, man, tak' it.
Then hey for the mill, &c.
A man that's been bred to the plough,
Might be deav'd wi' its clamorous clapper;
Yet there's few but would suffer the sough,
After kenning what's said by the happer.
I whiles thought it scoff'd me to scorn,
Saying, Shame, is your conscience no chackit;
But when I grew dry for a horn,
It chang'd aye to Tak' it, man, tak' it.
Then hey for the mill, &c.
The smugglers whiles cam' wi' their packs,
'Cause they kent that I liked a bicker,
Sae I bartered whyles wi' the gowks,
Gi'ed them grain for a soup o' their liquor.
I had lang been accustomed to drink,
And aye when I purposed to quat it,
That thing wi' its clapertie clink,
Said aye to me, Tak' it, man, tak' it.
Then hey for the mill, &c.
But the warst thing f did in my life,
Nae doubt but ye'll think I was wrang o't,
Od, I tauld a bit bodie in Fife
A' my tale, and he made a bit sang o't.
I have aye had a voice a' my days,
But for singin' I ne'er gat the knack o't;
Yet I try whyles, just thinking to please
My frien's here, wi' Tak' it, man, tak' it.
Then hey for the mill, &c.
Now, miller and a' as I am,
This far I can see through the matter;
There's men mair notorious to fame,
