He that drinks to drauck his dust,
Wha can say that wrang is done? Wha was't ne'er to fraud inclin'd, Never pray'd sin' he can min'd? Ane wha's drouth there's few can find, The Honest Laird o' Lamington.
I like a man to tak' his glass,
Toast a friend or bonny lass;
He that winna is an ass-
Deil send him ane to gallop on!
I like a man that's frank an' kind,
Meets me when I have a mind,
Sings his sang, an' drinks me blind,
Like the Laird o' Lamington.
Up wi' the Souters o' Selkirk,
The sons of an auld pedigree!
An' up wi' the lads o' the Forest,
Renown'd for their leal loyalte!
I may be mista'en, but I carena,
My error I never shall rue;
Of all manly virtues I value
The heart that is loyal and true.
Sing umptidy-tumptidy tearhim, &c.
Let them brag o' their factious republics,
Of brawling an' plebeian birth;
The land that has got a good sovereign,
Has got the best blessing on earth.
Then up wi' our auld-fashion'd structure,
An' Willie the tap o' the tree!
An' up wi' the Souters o' Selkirk !
The sons o' auld heroes for me!
Sing umptidy-tumptidy tearhim,
Sing umptidy-tumptidy tee;
Then up wi' the Souters o' Selkirk !
The sons o' auld heroes for me!
O, JEANIE, THERE'S NAETHING TO FEAR YE!
O, MY lassie, our joy to complete again,
Meet me again i' the gloaming, my dearie;
Low down in the dell let us meet again—
O, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!
Come, when the wee bat flits silent and eiry,
Come, when the pale face o' Nature looks weary;
Love be thy sure defence,
Beauty and innocence
O, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!
Sweetly blows the haw an' the rowan-tree,
Wild roses speck our thicket sae breery;
Still, still will our walk in the greenwood be—
O, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!
List when the blackbird o' singing grows weary,
List when the beetle-bee's bugle comes near ye,
Then come with fairy haste,
Light foot, an' beating breast
O Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!
Far, far will the bogle an' brownie be,
Beauty an' truth, they darena come near it; Kind love is the tie of our unity,
A' maun love it, an' a' maun revere it.
'Tis love makes the sang o' the woodland sae cheery, Love gars a' nature look bonny that's near ye; That makes the rose sae sweet,
Cowslip an' violet
O, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!
MEET me at even, my own true love,
Met me at even, my honey, my dove,
Where the moonbeam revealing
The cool fountain stealing
Away and away
Through flow'rets so gay,
Singing its silver roundelay.
Love is the fountain of life and bliss,
Love is the valley of joyfulness;
A garden of roses,
Where rapture reposes;
A temple of light,
All heavenly bright
O, virtuous love is the soul's delight!
THE VILLAGE OF BALMAQUHAPPLE.
D'YE ken the big village of Balmaquhapple,
The great muckle village of Balmaquhapple ?
'Tis steep'd in iniquity up to the thrapple,
An' what's to become o' poor Balmaquhapple ?
Fling a' aff your bannets, an' kneel for your life, fo'ks,
And pray to St Andrew, the god o' the Fife fo'ks;
Gar a' the hills yout wi' sheer vociferation,
And thus you may cry on sic needfu' occasion:
"O, blessed St Andrew, if e'er ye could pity fo'k,
Men fo'k or women fo'k, country or city fo'k,
Come for this aince wi' the auld thief to grapple,
An' save the great village of Balmaquhapple
Frae drinking an' leeing, an' flyting an' swearing,
An' sins that ye wad be affrontit at hearing,
An' cheating an' stealing; O, grant them redemption,
All save an' except the few after to mention :
"There's Johnny the elder, wha hopes ne'er to need ye,
Sae pawkie, sae holy, sae gruff, an' sae greedy;
Wha prays every hour as the wayfarer passes,
But aye at a hole where he watches the lasses;
He's cheated a thousand, an' e'en to this day yet
Can cheat a young lass, or they're leears that say it,
Then gie him his gate; he's sae slee an' sae civil,
Perhaps in the end he may wheedle the devil.
"There's Cappie the cobbler, an' Tammie the tinman,
An' Dickie the brewer, an' Peter the skinman,
An' Geordie our deacon, for want of a better,
An' Bess, wha delights in the sins that beset her.
O, worthy St Andrew, we canna compel ye,
But ye ken as weel as a body can tell ye,
If these gang to heaven, we'll a' be sae shockit,
Your garret o' blue will but thinly be stockit.
"But for a' the rest, for the women's sake, save them, Their bodies at least, an' their sauls, if they have them; But it puzzles Jock Lesly, an' sma' it avails,
If they dwell in their stamocks, their heads, or their tails,
An' save, without word of confession auricular,
The clerk's bonny daughters, an' Bell in particular;
For ye ken that their beauty's the pride an' the staple
Of the great wicked village of Balmaquhapple !"
WAS ever old warrior of suffering so weary?
Was ever the wild beast so bay'd in his den?
The southern bloodhounds lie in kennel so near me,
That death would be freedom to Callum-a-Glen.
My sons are all slain, and my daughters have left me,
No child to protect me, where once there were ten; My chief they have slain, and of stay have bereft me, And woe to the gray hairs of Callum-a-Glen!
The homes of my kinsmen are blazing to heaven,
The bright steep of morning has blush'd at the view ;
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