The Book of Scottish Song/The Cogie 1

The Cogie.

[Tannahill.—Tune, "Cauld kail in Aberdeen."]

When poortith cauld, and sour disdain,
Hang o'er life's vale sae fogie,
The sun that brightens up the scene,
Is friendship's kindly cogie.
Then, O revere the cogie, sirs,
The friendly, social cogie;
It gars the wheels o' life rin light,
Though e'er sae doilt and clogie.

Let pride in fortune's chariots fly,
Sae empty, vain, and vogie;
The source of wit, the spring of joy,
Lies in the social cogie.
Then, O revere the cogie, sirs,
The independent cogie;
And never snool beneath the frown
Of onie selfish rogie.

Poor modest worth, with heartless e'e,
Sits hurkling in the bogie,
Till she asserts her dignity,
By virtue of the cogie.
Then, O revere the cogie, sirs,
The poor man's patron cogie,
It warsals care, it fights life's faughts,
And lifts him frae the bogie.

Gi'e feckless Spain her weak snail broo,
Gi'e France her weel spic'd frogie,
Gi'e brither John his luncheon too,
But gi'e to us our cogie.
Then, O revere the cogie, sirs,
Our kind heart-warming cogie;
We doubly feel the social tie,
When just a wee thought grogie.

In days of yore our sturdy sires,
Upon their hills sae scrogie,
Glow'd with true freedom's warmest fires,
And fought to save their cogie.
Then, O revere the cogie, sirs,
Our brave forefathers' cogie;
It rous'd them up to doughty deeds,
O'er which we'll lang be vogie.

Then here's may Scotland ne'er fa' down,
A cringing coward dogie,
But bauldly stand, and bang the loon,
Wha'd reave her of her cogie.
Then, O protect the cogie, sirs,
Our good auld mither's cogie;
Nor let her luggie e'er be drain'd
By ony foreign rogie.

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