Comrades, fill your glass wi' me;
Let us drink, and laugh, and sing:
Whan ye merry are and ree,
Fear not to drink out your glee;
New delights the morn will bring.
My sweet wee laddie.
[Robert Jamieson.]
O blessings attend my sweet wee laddie,
That blinks sae bonnily now on my knee;
And thousands o' blessings attend on his daddie,
Tho' far awa' now frae his babie and me.
It's aft ha'e I sitten, and sair ha'e I grutten,
Till blear'd and blinded wi' tears was my e'e;
And aft I bethought me, how dearly I've bought thee;
For dear hast thou been, and dear art thou to me.
Yet blessings attend, &c.
O lanely and weary, cauld, friendless, and dreary,
To me the wide warld's a wilderness a';
Yet still ae dear blossom I clasp to my bosom,
And oh! 'tis sae sweet—like the joy that's awa'!
And blessings attend, &c.
When thou lyest sleeping I hang o'er thee weeping,
And bitter the tears that thy slumbers bedew;
Yet thy innocence smiling, sae sweetly beguiling,
Half mak's me forget that I sorrow e'er knew.
And blessings attend, &c.
Then smile, my sweet laddie—O smile like thy daddie;
My heart will be light tho' the tear's in my e'e;
I canna believe he will ever deceive me,
Sae leal and sae kind as he kythed aye to be.
And blessings attend, &c.
And O, 'mid my mourning to see him returning!—
Wi' thee to his arms, when with rapture I fly—
Come weal or come wae then, nae fear I can ha'e then,
And wha'll be sae blest as my babie and I!
Then blessings attend, &c.
A Lullaby.
[Alex. A. Ritchie.]
O safely sleep, my bonnie bairn!
Rock'd on this breast o' mine;
The heart that beats sae sair within,
Will not awaken thine.
Lie still, lie still, ye canker'd thoughts!
That such late watches keep;
An' if ye break the mother's heart,
Yet let the baby sleep.
Sleep on, sleep on, my ae, ae bairn!
Nor look sae wae on me,
As if ye felt the bitter tear
That blin's thy mother's e'e.
Dry up, dry up, ye saut, saut tears,
Lest on my bairn ye dreep;
An' break in silence, waefu' heart,
An' let my baby sleep.
The Bumper.
[John Donald Carrick.]
Some rail against drinking, and say 'tis a sin
To tipple the juice of the vine;
But as 'tis allow'd that we all have our faults,
I wish no other fault may be mine.
But mark me, good fellows, I don't mean to say,
That always to tipple is right;
But 'tis wisdom to drown the dull cares of th' day,
In a bowl with old cronies at night.
See yon husbandman labours with care on the plain,
Yet his face is lit up with a smile,
For the whisp'rings of hope tell again and again,
That harvest rewards all his toil.
Just so 'tis with us, though we labour with pain,
Yet we hear with unmingled delight,
The whisp'rings of hope tell again and again,
Of a harvest of pleasure at night.
