I've fought, I've danced, an' drucken too;
But nane o' thae are like to do;
Sae I maun come an' speer at you,
"What ails me, think ye, Janet?"
I'll soon be either dead or daft,
Sic drams o' luve frae you I've quaff'd;
Sae lay aside your woman-craft—
Ha'e mercy on me, Janet!
An' if ye winna, there's my loof,
I'll gar the provost lead a proof,
An' pit ye 'neath the tollbooth roof:
Syne what will ye do, Janet?
I'll mak' a fire upo' the knowe,
An' blaw it till it bleeze an' lowe;
Syne in 't I'll ha'e ye burnt, I trow—
Ye ha'e bewitch'd me, Janet!
Sandy.
[From a volume entitled "Twelve Dramatic Sketches, founded on the Pastoral Poetry of Scotland. By W. M. Hetherington, A. M.:" Edinburgh, 1829.]
O Sandy is a braw lad,
An' Sandy is a fine,
An' Sandy is a bonnie lad,
An', best of a', he's mine!
There's Tibby glooms, and Nelly geeks,
An' Nanny looks fu' shy,
And Katie downa speak to me;
But troth I carena by!
For Sandy is a braw lad,
An' Sandy is a fine,
An' Sandy is a bonnie lad,
An', best of a', he's mine!
Auld Girzie, wi' her cock-up nose,
She fuffs like ony goose;
An' wee bit perkin Marjory,
Poor thing! looks unco crouse:
Fat Lizzie's een for vera spite,
They glow like ony coal,
An' Betty, wi' her brucket face,
My sight she canna thole.
For Sandy is, &c.
The slae is sour, but sourer far
Is muckle wry-mouth'd Jean;
An' lang-tongued Eppie, warst ava,
She flytes fra morn till e'en;
Mim Marion thraws her wrinkled chafts
Like ony beggar's dud,
Gleed Matty shakes her corky head,
And winks as she were wud.
For Sandy is, &c.
There's no a lass in a' the town,
But sair she hates poor me;
Daft gouks! they fear they'll lose their joe,—
And sae it e'en may be!
To tempt them, for a week or twa,
The secret yet I'll hide;
But I could tell, or this day month,
Wha will be Sandy's bride!
O Sandy is, &c.
Summer Wooing.
[Robert Nicoll.]
The green broom was bloomin',—
The daisy was seen
Peerin' up to the sky
Frae the flower spangled green,—
The burnie was loupin'
By bank an' by brae,
While alang by its margin
A lassie did gae.
She heard the wee birdies
Sing hie in the cluds,
An' the downy wing'd breezes
Creep through the green wuds;
An' she saw the bright e'enin' sun
Lighting the whole:—
There was joy in the lassie's face—
Peace in her soul!
She sat in the shade
Of a sweet-scented briar,
An' the sounds of the wild wood
Came saft on her ear;
While the flushes o' feelin'
Swept o'er her sweet face,
As the clouds o'er the moon
One another do chase.
In the peace of the twilight
Her soul did repose—
