For I've thretty pun Scots ilka year—
Twa pecks o' gude meal an' a saxpence
Comes in ilka Saturday clear,
Sent me down frae auld Andrew Dickson's.
I've likewise a dainty milk cow—
An' thae things will aye haud us breathing:
Twa pigs an' a dainty brood sow,
An' they a' get their grazing for naething.
Sae tell me whan ye're comin' hame,
An' dinna appear in a swither,
For gin ye winna tak' me, my dame,
Troth I'm just gaun awa' to anither.
Dear Johnnie, quo' she, with a smile,
It's a' very fair that ye proffer—
But wi' kye and wi' pigs for to toil—
I canna accept o' your offer.
Her father this while at the door—
Lap in wi' an' angry complexion,
An' O! how he curst an' he swore
He wad beat him, an' bruise him, an' vex him.
Poor Johnnie maist coupit the creels;
The door it stood open before him;
He fled—while the grews at his heels,
An' the spaniels were like to devour him.
Lovely Mary.
[John Grieve.—Air, "Gowd in gowpens."]
I've seen the lily of the wold;
I've seen the opening marigold,
Their fairest hues at morn unfold;
But fairer is my Mary.
How sweet the fringe of mountain burn,
With op'ning flowers at spring's return!
How sweet the scent of flowery thorn!
But sweeter is my Mary.
Her heart is gentle, warm, and kind;
Her form's not fairer than her mind;
Two sister beauties rarely join'd,
But join'd in lovely Mary.
As music from the distant steep,
As starlight on the silent deep,
So are my passions lull'd asleep
By love for bonnie Mary.
’Neath the wave.
[Written by Daniel Weir to a Gaelic air.]
'Neath the wave thy lover sleeps,
And cold, cold is his pillow;
O'er his bed no maiden weeps,
Where rolls the white billow.
And though the winds have sunk to rest
Upon the ocean's troubled breast,
Yet still, oh still there's left behind
A restless storm in Ellen's mind.
Her heart is on yon dark'ning wave,
Where all she lov'd is lying,
And where around her William's grave,
The sea-bird is crying.
And oft on Jura's lonely shore,
Where surges beat and billows roar,
She sat—but grief has nipt her bloom,
And there they made young Ellen's tomb.
The Mermaiden.
[William Motherwell.—Set to music in R. A. Smith's Scottish Minstrel.]
The nicht is mirk, and the wind blaws schill,
And the white faem weets my bree,
And my mind misgi'es me, gay maiden,
That the land we sall never see!
Then up and spak' the mermaiden,
And she spak' blythe and free,
"I never said to my bonnie bridegroom,
That on land we suld weddit be.
"Oh! I never said that ane erthlie preest
Our bridal blessing should gi'e,
And I never said that a landwart bouir
Should hald my luve and me."
And whare is that preest, my bonnie maiden,
If ane erthlie wicht is na he?
"Oh! the wind will sough, and the sea will rair,
When weddit we twa sall be."
And whare is that bouir, my bonnie maiden,
If on land it suld na be?
"Oh! my blythe bouir is low," said the mermaiden,
