Ta shentleman's say't "respect ta coort,
Or nelse my koot lat you'll suffer for 't,
Shust taur to spokst another wort,
An' she'll send her to ta Fischal in ta mornin'.
Oich! she didna knew what to do afa,
For she nefer found herself so sma',
An' klat she was right to kot awa',
Frae oot o' ta offish in ta mornin'.
Oh! tat she war to ta Hielans pack,
Whar ne'er ta pailie's tare to crack,
An' whare she wad gotten ta sorro' a plack,
Frae n'oot o' her sporan in ta mornin'.
An tat there was there her cosin's son,
An' Tuncan, an' Tookal, and Tonal Cunn,
An' twa tree more, she wad haet sic fun,
And no be plaiget wi' pailies in ta mornin'.
Lauchie's Promotions.
[Alex. Rodger.—Air "Johnny Cope."]
Nainsel she was porn 'mang ta Hielan' hills,
'Mang ta goats, an' ta sheeps, an' ta whiskee stills,
An' ta brochan, an' brogues, an' ta snuishin' mills,
Oich! she was ta ponnie land she was porn in:
For a' ta lads there will be shentlemans porn,
An' will wear skean-dhu an' ta praw snuishin'-horn,
An' ta fine tartan trews her praw houghs to adorn,
An' mak' her look fu' spruce in ta mornin'.
Noo, ta shentlemans will no like to wroughtin' at a',
But she'll sit py ta grieshach her haffets to claw;
An' pe birsle her shanks, till they're red as ta haw,
An' a' fu' o' measles ilka mornin'.
But her nainsel' at last to ta Lalans cam' doon,
An' will got her a place 'mang ta mhor Glaschow toon;
Whar she's noo prush-ta-poot, an' pe polish-ta-shoon,
An' pe shentleman's flunkie in ta mornin'.
But at last she will turn very full o' ta proud,
An' she'll hold up her heads, an' she'll spoke very loud,
An' she'll look wi' disdains 'pon ta low tirty crowd,
Tat will hing 'pout ta doors ilka mornin'.
Noo, her nainsel is go to have one merry ball,
Whar she'll dance Killum Callum, hoogh! ta best o' them all,
For ta ponniest dancer she'll pe in ta hall,
Aye, either 'mang ta evenin' or mornin'.
Ither lads will have lasses, hersel will have no,
It pe far too expense wi' ta lassie to go;
So, she'll shust dance hersel', her fine preedings to show,
Tat she learn 'mang ta place she was porn in.
Then ta lads will cry "Lauchie, where from did you'll cam',
Tat you'll not give ta lassie ta dance an' ta dram?"
But te're a' trouster mosachs, every one shust ta sam',
They wad spulzie all her sporran ere ta mornin'.
Noo, she's thochtin' she'll yet turn a praw waiter's pell,
When she wear ta fine pump an' pe dress very well;
An' py Sheorge! ere she'll stop, she'll pe maister hersel,
In spite o' a' their taunts an' their scornin'.
Syne wha like ta great Maister Fraser will pe,
When she'll hing up ta sign o' the "Golden Cross Key,"
An' will sit in her parlour her orders to gi'e
To her waiters an' her boots in ta mornin'?
Tugal M'Taggart.
Would you'll knaw me, my name it is Tugal M'Tagger,
She'll brought hersel' down frae the braes o' Lochaber,
To learn her nainsel to be praw habberdaber,
Or fine linen-draber, the tane or the twa.
She'll being a stranger, she'll look very shy-like:
She's no weel acquaint wi your laigh kintra dialect;
But hoogh! never heed, she's got plenty o' Gaelic—
She comes frae ta house at the fit o' Glendoo.
But her kilt she'll exchange for ta praw tandy trowser,
An' she'll learn to ta lady to scrap an' to pow, sir,
An' say to ta shentlemans. How did you'll do, sir?
An' ten she'll forget her poor friens at Glendoo.
