Nan of Logie Green.
[Picken.]
By pleasure long infected,
Kind Heav'en, when least expected,
My devious path directed
To Nan of Logie Green;
Where thousand sweets repose 'em
In quiet's unruffled bosom,
I found my peerless blossom
Adorning Logie Green.
The city belle declaiming,
My fancy may be blaming,
But still I'll pride in naming
Sweet Nan of Logie Green.
Her cheek the vermeil rose is,
Her smile a heav'n discloses,
No lily leaf that blows is
So fair on Logie Green.
Ye town-bred dames, forgive me,
Your arms must ne'er receive me;
Your charms are all, believe me,
Eclips'd on Logie Green.
Forgive my passion tender—
Heav'n so much grace did lend her
As made my heart surrender
To Nan of Logie Green.
No more the town delights me,
For love's sweet ardour smites me,
I'll go where he invites me—
To Nan of Logie Green:
My heart shall ne'er deceive her,
I ne'er in life shall leave her;
In love and peace for ever
We'll live at Logie Green.
The Beggar.
[T. Mouncey Cunningham.]
Wha's this, bedight in tatter'd claes,
Comes loutin' owre a sturdy rung,
Wi' cloutit wallets fore and aft,
And at his belt a gully hung?
Deep is the glen wi' drifted snaw,
And keen the wind blaws owre the hill;
Ye downa up Borinairoch gang,
The nippin' cauld your blude will chill.
Come in, an' share the kindly bleeze,
Whare feckless eild his bouk may warm,
Come in, an' share the frien'ly beild,
To shield thee frae the bitter storm.
Ye mauna trow that ilka Scot
Is reft o' pity's haly flame:
Auld neiber, gi'e's your shiverin' nieve,
An' mak' my lanely ha' your hame.
Now, though the scone our Leezy beuk
Was toastit nice as scone cou'd be,
An' though our Crummy's aften roos'd,
The milk nor scone he doughtna pree;
But glowr'd, as gin the awsome hour
Drew near, to close his yirthly woe;
Like some auld aik, before the storm
Has laid its ancient honours low.
Tell me, auld neiber, where ye wan
That rousty blade, an' honest scar?
I trow ye've been on mony a field,
Amid the horrid din o' war?
He couldna speak—a deadly smile
Play'd on his looks serenely dour!
An' ere we wist, the vet'ran auld,
A lifeless corse lay on the floor!
O weel’s me.
[Tune, "Landlady, count the Lawin'."]
O, weel's me on my ain man,
My ain man, my ain man!
O, weel's me on my ain gudeman!
He'll aye be welcome hame.
I'm wae I blamed him yesternight,
For now my heart is feather light;
For gowd I wadna gl'e the sight,
I see him linkin owre the height.
O, weel's me on my ain man, &c.
Rin, Jeanie, bring the kebbuek ben,
An' fin 'aneath the spreckl'd hen;
Meg, rise and sweep about the fire,
Syne cry on Johnnie frae the byre.
