SEQUEL TO MAGGIE LAUDER.
[Written by Capt. Charles Gray, and first published in a small collection of his pieces, 1811.]
The cantie spring scarce rear'd her head,
And winter yet did blaud her,
When the Ranter cam' to Anster fair,
An' spier'd for Maggie Lauder;
A snug wee house in the East Green,
Its shelter kindly lent her;
Wi' canty ingle, clean hearth-stane,
Meg welcomed Rob the Ranter!
Then Rob made bonnie Meg his bride,
An' to the kirk they ranted;
He play'd the auld "East Nook o’ Fife,"
An' merry Maggie vaunted,
That Hab himsel' ne'er play'd a spring,
Nor blew sae weel his chanter,
For he made Anster town to ring;
An' wha's like Rob the Ranter?
For a' the talk an' loud reports
That ever gaed against her,
Meg proves a true an' carefu' wife,
As ever was in Anster;
An' since the marriage knot was tied,
Rob swears he couldna want her,
For he lo'es Maggie as his life,
An' Meg lo'es Rob the Ranter.
The Joyfu’ Widower.
[Written by Burns, for Johnson's Museum, to the tune of "Maggie Lauder."]
I married with a scolding wife,
The fourteenth of November;
She made me weary of my life,
By one unruly member.
Long did I bear the heavy yoke,
And many griefs attended;
But, to my comfort be it spoke,
Now, now her life is ended.
We lived full one-and-twenty years,
A man and wife together;
At length from me her course she steer'd,
And gone I know not whither:
Would I could guess, I do profess,
I speak, and do not flatter,
Of all the women in the world,
I never could come at her.
Her body is bestowed well,
A handsome grave does hide her;
But sure her soul is not in hell,
The deil could ne'er abide her.
I rather think she is aloft,
And imitating thunder;
For why,—methinks I hear her voice
Tearing the clouds asunder.
Though Boreas bauld.
[Capt. Charles Gray. — Air, "Maggie Lauder."]
Though Boreas bauld, that carle auld,
Should sough a surly chorus;
And winter fell walk out himsel',
And throw his mantle o'er us;
Though winds blaw drift adown the lift,
And drive hailstanes afore 'em,
While you an' I sit snug an' dry,
Let's push about the jorum!
Though no a bird can now be heard
Upon the leafless timmer;
Whate'er betide, the ingle side
Can mak' the winter simmer!
Though cauldrife souls hate reeking bowls,
And loath what's set before 'em;
How sweet to tout the glasses out—
O leeze me on a jorum!
The hie hill taps, like baxters' baps,
Wi'snaw are white and floury;
Skyte down the lum, the hailstanes come
In winter's wildest fury!
Sharp Johnny Frost wi' barkynt hoast
Maks trav'llers tramp the quicker;
Shou'd he come here to spoil our cheer,
We'll drown him in the bicker!
Bess, beet the fire—come big it higher,
Lest cauld should mak' us canker'd;
This is our hame, my dainty dame,
