The sangsters' glee will a' be hush'd,
Like me they'll sadness ken;
And, wandering through the wintry woods,
I'll mak' them neebours then.
Oh! could I hope for Mary's love,
As nature hopes for spring,
Nae winter's gloom could o'er my heart,
Its darksome shadow fling.
But ah! her love, and sunny smiles,
Mine ne'er again can be—
To ithers gladsome seasons come,
It's winter aye wi' me!
Now Jenny, lass.
[The author of this song is a Mr. Somerville. It was jocosely known among his friends as the "Somerville Testament."—Tune, "Garyowen."]
Now, Jenny lass, my bonnie bird,
My daddy's dead, an' a' that;
He's snugly laid aneath the yird,
And I'm his heir, an' a' that.
I'm now a laird, an' a' that;
I'm now a laird, an' a' that;
His gear an' land's at my command,
And muckle mair than a' that.
He left me wi' his deein' breath
A dwallin' house, an' a' that;
A barn, a byre, an' wabs o' claith—
A big peat-stack, an' a' that.
A mare, a foal, an' a' that,
A mare, a foal, an' a' that,
Sax guid fat kye, a cauf forby,
An' twa pet ewes, an' a' that.
A yard, a meadow, lang braid leas,
An' stacks o' corn an' a' that—
Enclosed weel wi' thorns an* trees;
An' carts, an' cars, an' a' that.
A pleugh, an' graith, an' a' that,
A pleugh, an' graith, an' a' that;
Guid harrows twa, cock, hens, an' a'—
A gricie too, an' a' that.
I've heaps o' claes for ilka days,
For Sundays too, an' a' that;
I've bills an' bonds, on lairds an' lands,
An' siller, gowd, an' a' that.
What think ye, lass, o' a' that?
What think ye, lass, o' a' that?
What want I noo, my dainty doo,
But just a wife to a' that.
Now, Jenny dear, my errand here,
Is to seek ye to a' that;
My heart's a' loupin' while I speer
Gin ye'll tak' me, wi' a' that.
Mysel', my gear, an' a' that,
Mysel', my gear, an' a' that;
Come, gi'e's your loof to be a proof,
Ye'll be a wife to a' that.
Syne Jenny laid her neive in his,
Said, she'd tak' him wi' a' that;
An' he gied her a hearty kiss,
An' dauted her, an' a' that.
They set a day, an' a' that,
They set a day, an' a' that;
Whan she'd gang hame to be his dame,
An' haud a rant, an' a' that.
Janet.
[Robert Nicoll.]
I'll mak' a fire upo' the knowe,
An' blaw it till it bleeze an' lowe;
Syne in't I'll ha'e ye burnt, I trow—
Ye ha'e bewitch'd me, Janet!
Your een in ilka starn I see—
The hale night lang I dream o' thee—
The bonnie lintie on the lea,
I liken to you, Janet!
When leaves are green, an' fresh an' fair-
When blythe an' sunny is the air—
I stroke my beard, and say they're rare;
But naething like you, Janet!
'Twas but yestreen, as I gaed hame,
The minister said, "What is your name?
My answer—'deed I may think shaime—
Was, "Sir, my name is Janet!"
Last Sabbath, as I sang the psalm,
I fell into an unco dwaum,
An' naething frae my lips e'er cam'
But "Janet! Janet! Janet!"
