I ha'e keep it my house now these threescore years,
And aye I kept frae the spinnin' o't;
But how I was sark it, foul fa' them that speirs,
For it minds me upo' the beginnin' o't.
But our women are now-a-days a' grown sae braw,
That ilk ane maun ha'e a sark, and some ha'e twa—
The warlds were better where ne'er ane ava
Had a rag, but ane at the beginnin' o't.
In the days they ca' yore, gin auld fouks had but won
To a surcoat, hough-syde, for the winnin o't.
Of coat-raips weel cut by the cast o' their bum,
They never socht mair o' the spinnin' o't.
A pair o' grey hoggers weil cluikit benew,
Of nae other lit but the hue of the ewe,
With a pair o' rough mullions to scuff through the dew,
Was the fee they socht at the beginnin' o't.
But we maun ha'e linen, and that maun ha'e we,
And how get we that but by spinnin' o't?
How can we ha'e face for to seek a great fee,
Except we can help at the winnin' o't?
And we maun ha'e pearlins, and mabbies, and cocks,
And some other things that the ladies ca' smocks;
And how get we that, gin we tak' na our rocks,
And pow what we can at the spinnin' o't?
'Tis needless for us to mak' our remarks,
Frae our mither's miscookin' the spinnin' o't,
She never kenn'd ocht o' the gueed o' the sarks,
Frae this aback to the beginnin' o't.
Twa-three ell o' plaiden was a' that was socht
By our auld-warld bodies, and that bude be bought;
For in ilka town siccan things wasna wrocht-
Sae little they kenn'd o' the spinnin' o't!
What’s a’ the steer.
[Jacobite Song.]
What's a' the steer, kimmer?
What's a' the steer?
Charlie he is landed,
An', haith, he'll soon be here.
The win' was at his back, carle,
The win' was at his back;
I carena, sin' he's come, carle,
We were na worth a plack.
I'm right glad to hear't, kimmer,
I'm right glad to hear't;
I ha'e a gude braid claymore,
And for his sake I'll weart.
Sin' Charlie he is landed,
We ha'e nae mair to fear;
Sin' Charlie he is come, kimmer,
We'll ha'e a jublee year.
The Lomond.
[Wm. Chalmers.]
"O, lassie, wilt thou go
To the Lomond wi' me,
The wild thyme's in bloom,
And the flow'r's on the lea;
Wilt thou go, my dearest love?
I will ever constant prove,
I'll range each hill and grove
On the Lomond wi' thee."
"O young men are fickle,
Nor trusted to be,
And many a native gem
Shines lair on the lea.
Thou may see some lovely flower
Of a more attractive power,
And may take her to thy bower,
On the Lomond wi' thee."
"The hynd shall forsake,
On the mountain, the doe,
The stream of the fountain
Shall cease for to flow;
Ben-Lomond shall bend
His high brow to the sea,
Ere I take to my bower,
Any flower, love, but thee."
She's taken her mantle,
He's taken his plaid;
He coft her a ring,
And he made her his bride:
They're far o'er yon hills
To spend their happy days,
And range the woody glens
'Mang the Lomond braes.
