His cloak of Moffat tartan
Hung down beneath his garten,—
He cam' to spae my fortune;—
His name was Aikendrum.
His brow with time was wrinkled,
His hair with grey was sprinkled;
But, oh! his een they twinkled
Whene'er they gazed on me.
Then to the seat he hied him,
My titty had supplied him,—
I sat me down beside him,
Beneath our holly tree.
He took my hand discreetly,
And looked right sedately,
And scann'd it o'er completely,
With monie a haw and hum.
With transport then he seized it,
And to his lips he raised it,
And lovingly he squeezed it—
The gallant Aikendrum.
He slippit aff his grey beard,
His grey beard, his grey beard—
He doffed his cloak—his mask tear'd,
And threw 't ayont the lum;—
Then sweetly he addressd me,
And to his bosom press'd me:
'Twas Jamie that caress'd me!—
It wasna Aikendrum!
A canty Sang.
[Robert Gilfillan.—Tune, "The Laird o' Cockpen."]
A canty sang, O, a canty sang,
Will naebody gi'e us a canty sang?
There's naething keeps nights frae turning owre lang
Like a canty sang, like a canty sang.
If folk wad but sing when they're gaun to flyte,
Less envy ye'd see, less anger and spite;
What saftens doun strife, and mak's love mair strang,
Like a canty sang, like a canty sang?
Like a canty sang, &c.
If lads wad but sing when they gang to woo,
They'd come na aye hame wi' thoum i' their mou';
The chiel that wi' lasses wad be fu' thrang,
Suld learn to lilt to them a canty sang.
A canty sang, &c.
When fools become quarrelsome ower their ale,
I'se gi'e ye a cure whilk never will fail,—
When their tongues get short an' their arms get lang,
Aye drown the din wi' a canty sang!
A canty sang, &c.
I downa bide strife, though fond o' a spree,
Your sair wordy bodies are no for me:
A wee dribble punch, gif it just be strang,
Is a' my delight, an' a canty sang!
A canty sang, O, a canty sang,
Will naebody gi'e us a canty sang?
There's naething keeps nights frae turning ower lang
Like a canty sang, like a canty sang.
We'll go to sea no more.
[From the "Odd Volume—Second Series," by the Misses Corbet.]
Oh! blythly shines the bonnie sun
Upon the Isle of May,
And blythly comes the morning tide
Into St. Andrew's bay;
Then up, gudeman—the breeze is fair;
And up my braw bairns three,—
There's goud in yonder bonnie boat
That sails so well the sea!
When haddocks leave the Firth of Forth,
And mussels leave the shore;
When oysters climb up Berwick Law,
We'll go to sea no more,
No more,
We'll go to sea no more.
I've seen the waves as blue as air,
I've seen them green as grass;
But I never feared their heaving yet
From Grangemouth to the Bass.
I've seen the sea as black as pitch,
