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These benisons, I'm very sure,

Are of kind heaven's indulgent grant;
Then, surly carles, wheesht, forbear

To plague us wi' your whinin' cant!

From the "Tea-Table Miscellany," 1724. "Connected with this song," says Chambers, "which few readers will need to be informed is a paraphrase, and a very happy one, of the celebrated 'Vides ut alta' of Horace, the following anecdote may be told. In a large mixed company, which had assembled one night in the house of a citizen of Edinburgh, where Robert Burns happened to be present, somebody sung 'Gin ye meet a bonnie lassie,' with excellent effect, insomuch as to throw all present into a sort of rapture. The only exception lay with a stiff pedantic old schoolmaster, who, in all the consciousness of superior critical acumen, and determined to be pleased with nothing which was not strictly classical, sat erect in his chair, with a countenance full of disdain, and rigidly abstained from expressing the slightest symptom of satisfaction. 'What ails you at the sang, Mr. -?' inquired an honest citizen of the name of Boog, who had been particularly delighted with it. 'Oh, nothing!' answered the man of learning; 'only the whole of it is stolen from Horace.' 'Houts, man!' replied Boog, 'Horace has rather stolen from the auld sang.' This ludicrous observation was met with absolute shouts of laughter, the whole of which was at the expense of the discomfited critic; and Burns was pleased to express his hearty thanks to the citizen for having set the matter to rights. He seems, from a passage in Cromek's 'Relics,' to have made use of the observation as his own."

MY JO JANET.

From the "Tea-Table Miscellany."

Air-"The keekin' glass," or "My jo Janet."

SWEET sir, for your courtesie,

When ye come by the Bass, then,

For the love ye bear to me,

Buy me a keekin' glass, then.

"Keek into the draw-well,

Janet, Janet;

There ye'll see your bonnie sell,
My jo Janet."

Keekin' in the draw-well clear,

What if I fa' in, sir?

Then a' my kin' will say and swear

I droun'd mysell for sin, sir.
"Haud the better by the brae,
Janet, Janet;

Haud the better by the brac
My jo Janet."

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AULD ROB MORRIS.

From the "Tea-Table Miscellany." Air-"Jock's the laird's brither."

MOTHER.

AULD Rob Morris, that wons in yon glen,

He's the king o' guid fallows, and wale o' auld men;
He has fourscore o' black sheep, and fourscore too;
Auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun lo'e.

DAUGHTER.

Haud your tongue, mother, and let that abee;
For his eild and my eild can never agree:
They'll never agree, and that will be seen,
For he is fourscore, and I'm but fifteen.

MOTHER.

Haud your tongue, dochter, and lay by your pride,
For he is the bridegroom, and ye'se be the bride;
He shall lie by your side, and kiss you too;
Auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun lo'e.

DAUGHTER.

Auld Rob Morris, I ken him fu' weel,
His back sticks out like ony peat-creel;

He's out-shinn'd, in-kneed, and ringle-eyed too;
Auld Rob Morris is the man I'll ne'er lo'e.

MOTHER.

Though auld Rob Morris be an elderly man,
Yet his auld brass will buy you a new pan;
Then, dochter, ye should na be sae ill to shoe,
For auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun lo’e.

DAUGHTER.

But auld Rob Morris I never will hae,

His back is so stiff and his beard is grown gray;

I had rather die than live wi' him a year,

Sae mair o' Rob Morris I never will hear.

This song appears in the "Tea-Table Miscellany" with the signature of Q, signifying it to be an old song modernised by Ramsay. Burns has written a love song with the same title, in which he has preserved the first two lines, and some other portions of the above.

THE BLAITHRIE O'T.

From the "Charmer," 1749, but known to be much older.

WHEN I think on this warld's pelf,

And the little wee share I hae o't to myself,

And how the lass that wants it is by the lads forgot ;-
May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't!

Jockie was the laddie that held the pleugh,

But now he's got gowd and gear enough;

He thinks nae mair o' me that wears the plaiden coat ;— May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't!

Jennie was the lassie that muck'd the byre,

But now she is clad in her silken attire;

And Jockie says he lo'es her, and swears he's me forgot ;May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't!

But all this shall never daunton me,

Sae lang as I keep my fancy free;

For the lad that's sae inconstant he is not worth a groat ;— May the shame fa' the gear and the blaithrie o't!

SECOND VERSION.

WHEN I think on this warld's pelf,
And how little o't I hae to myself,

I sich and look down on my threadbare coat ;-
Yet the shame tak' the gear and the baigrie o't!

Johnnie was the lad that held the pleuch,

But now he has gowd and gear eneuch;

I mind weil the day when he was na worth a groat ;-
And the shame fa' the gear and the baigrie o't!

Jenny was the lassie that muckit the byre,

But now she goes in her silken attire ;

And she was a lass wha wore a plaiden coat ;-
Oh, the shame fa' the gear and the baigrie o't!

Yet a' this shall never daunton me,

Sae lang as I keep my fancy free;

While I've but a penny to pay the t'other pot,
May the shame fa' the gear and the baigrie o't!

THIRD VERSION.

O WILLY, Weel I mind, I lent you my hand
To sing you a song which you did me command;
But my memory's so bad, I had almost forgot
That you call'd it the gear and the blaithrie o't.

I'll not sing about confusion, delusion, or pride,
I'll sing about a laddie was for a virtuous bride;
For virtue is an ornament that time will never rot,
And preferable to gear and the blaithrie o't.

Though my lassie hae nae scarlets or silks to put on,
We envy not the greatest that sits upon the throne;
I wad rather hae my lassie, though she cam' in her smock,
Than a princess wi' the gear and the blaithrie o't.

Though we hae nae horses or menzie at command,
We will toil on our foot, and we'll work wi' our hand;

And when wearied without rest, we'll find it sweet in any spot,
And we'll value not the gear and the blaithrie o't.

If we hae ony babies, we'll count them as lent;

Hae we less, hae we mair, we will aye be content;

For they say they hae mair pleasure that wins but a groat,
Than the miser wi' his gear and the blaithrie o't.

I'll not meddle wi' th' affairs o' the kirk or the queen ;
They're nae matters for a sang,-let them sink, let them swim;
On your kirk I'll ne'er encroach, but I'll hold it still remote,
Sae tak' this for the gear and the blaithrie o't.

"The above is a set of this song," says Burns," which was the earliest song I remember to have got by heart. When a child, an old woman sung it to me, and I cked it up every word at first hearing."

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