I'll lead thee to the birken bower on yon burn-side,
Sae sweetly wove wi' woodbine flower, on yon burn-side:
There the busy prying eye
Ne'er disturbs the lover's joy,
While in other's arms they lie, down by yon burn-side.
Awa', ye rude unfeelin' crew, frae yon burn-side!
Those fairy scenes are no for you, by yon burn-side:
There fancy smooths her theme,
By the sweetly murmurin' stream,
And the rock-lodged echoes skim, down by yon burn-side.
Now the plantin' taps are tinged wi' gowd on yon burn-side,
And gloamin' draws her foggie shroud o'er yon burn-side:
Far frae the noisy scene,
I'll through the fields alane;
There we'll meet, my ain dear Jean! down by yon burn-side.
Wap at the Widow.
[Re-modelled by Ramsay from an old but indelicate song to a lively air.]
The widow can bake, and the widow can brew,
The widow can shape, and the widow can sew,
And mony braw things the widow can do;
Then have at the widow, my laddie.
With courage attack her, baith early and late,
To kiss her and clap her ye maunna be blate:
Speak well, and do better; for that's the best gate
To win a young widow, my laddie.
The widow she's youthfu', and never ae hair
The waur of the wearing, and has a good skair
Of every thing lovely; she's witty and fair,
And has a rich jointure, my laddie.
What could ye wish better, your pleasure to crown,
Than a widow, the bonniest toast in the town,
With, Naething but—draw in your stool and sit down,
And sport with the widow, my laddie.
Then till her, and kill her with courtesie dead,
Though stark love and kindness be all you can plead;
Be heartsome and airy, and hope to succeed
With the bonnie gay widow, my laddie.
Strike iron while 'tis het, if ye'd have it to wald,
For fortune aye favours the active and bauld,
But ruins the wooer that's thowless and cauld,
Unfit for the widow, my laddie.
The bonnie brucket lassie.
[The two first lines of this song are old. The rest is by James Tytler, commonly called "Balloon Tytler," the editor and principal compiler of the original Encyclopedia Britannica. He was a native of Brechin, and during his life was engaged in many literary speculations. He died in the province of Massachusetts, North America, in 1805, aged fifty-eight.]
The bonnie brucket lassie,
She's blue beneath the een;
She was the fairest lassie
That danced on the green.
A lad he loo'd her dearly;
She did his love return:
But he his vows has broken.
And left her for to mourn.
My shape, she says, was handsome,
My face was fair and clean;
But now I'm bonnie brucket,
And blue beneath the een.
My eyes were bright and sparkling,
Before that they turned blue;
But now they're dull with weeping,
And a', my love, for you.
My person it was comely;
My shape, they said, was neat:
But now I am quite changed;
My stays they winna meet.
A' nicht I sleeped soundly;
My mind was never sad;
But now my rest is broken
Wi' thinking o' my lad.
O could I live in darkness,
Or hide me in the sea,
Since my love is unfaithful,
And has forsaken me!
No other love I suffered,
Within my breast to dwell,
In nought I have offended,
But loving him too well.
