My heart has nae room when I think on my laddie,
His dear rosy haffets bring tears to my e'e—
But, O! he's awa', and I dinna ken whar he's—
Gin we could ance meet we'll ne'er part till we die,
O light be the breezes around him saft blawin';
And o'er him sweet simmer still blink bonnilie,
And the rich dews o' plenty, around him wide fa'in,
Prevent a' his fears for my baby and me!
My blessings upon that sweet wee lippie!
My blessings upon that bonnie ee-brie
Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie,
Thou's aye the dearer and dearer to me.
But I'll big a bower on yen green bank sae bonnie,
That's lav'd by the waters o' Tay wimplin' clear,
And deed thee in tartans, my wee smiling Johnnie,
And make thee a man like thy daddie dear.
Auld Uncle Watty.
[Archibald M'Kay of Kilmarnock.—Tune, "Bonnie Dundee."]
O! weel I ha'e mind o' my auld uncle Watty,
When but a bit callan I stood by his knee,
Or clamb the big chair, where at e'enin' he sat aye;
He made us fu' blythe wi' his fun and his glee:
For O! he was knackie, and couthie, and crackle,
Baith humour and lair in his noddle had he—
The youths o' the clachan he'd keep a' a-laughin",
Wi' his queer obserrations and stories sae slee.
The last Hogmanay that we met in his cottie,
To talk owre the past, and the nappy to pree,
Some auld-farrant sangs, that were touchin' and witty,
He sung, till the bairnies were dancin' wi' glee;
And syne in the dance, like a youngster o' twenty,
He lap and he flang wi' auld Nannie Macfee—
In a' the blythe meeting nae ane was sae canty,
Sae jokin', sae gabby, sae furthy, and free.
And! had ye seen him that e'enin' when Rory
W'as kippled to Maggie o' Riccarton Mill,
Wi' jokes rare and witty he kept up the glory,
Till morning's faint glmimer was seen on the hill.
O! he was a body, when warm'd wi' the toddy,
Whase wit to ilk bosom enchantment could gi'e,
For funnin' and daffin', and punnin' and laughin',
Throughout the hale parish nae equal had he.
But worn out at last wi' life's cares and its labours,
He bade an adieu to his frien's a' sae dear,
And sunk in death's sleep, sair bewail'd by his neebors,
Wha yet speak his praise, and his mem'ry revere.
Whar slumbers the dust o' my auld anntie Matty,
We dug him a grave wi' the tear in our e'e,
And there laid the banes o' my auld uncle Watty,
To moulder in peace by the big aiken-tree.
Daft Days.
[Hugh Ainslie.]
"The midnight hour is clinking, lads,
An' the douce an' the decent are winking, lails,
Sae I tell you again,
Be't weel or ill ta'en,
It's time ye were quitting your drinking, lads."
"Gae ben an' mind your gantry, Kate,
Gi'e's mair o' your beer and less bantry, Kate;
For we vow whar we sit,
That afore we shall flit,
We'll be better acquent wi' your pantry, Kate.
"The daft days are but beginning, Kate,
An' we've sworn (wad ye ha'e us be sinning, Kate?)
By our faith an' our houp,
We shall stick by the stoup
As lang as a barrel keeps rinning, Kate.
"Thro' spring an' thro' simmer we moil it, Kate?
Through hay an' through harvest we toil it, Kate;
Sae ye ken, when the wheel
Is beginning to squeal,
It's time for to grease or to oil it, Kate.
"Then score us another drappy, Kate,
An' gi'e us a cake to our cappy, Kate;
For, by spigot an' pin,
It were mair than a sin
To flit when we're sitting sae happy, Kate."
