A leal true heart's a gift frae heav'n,
A gift that is maist rare;
It is a treasure o' itsel',
And lightens ilka care.
Let wealth and pride exalt themsel's,
And boast o' what they ha'e,
Compar'd wi' truth and honesty,
They are nae worth a strae.
The honest heart keeps aye aboon,
Whate'er the world may say,
And laughs and turns its shafts to scorn,
That ithers would dismay.
Sae let us mak' life's burden light,
And drive ilk care awa';
Contentment is a dainty feast,
Although in hamely ha';
It gi'es a charm to ilka thing,
And mak's it look fu' braw,
The spendthrift and the miser herd,
It soars aboon them a'.
But there's ae thing amang the lave
To keep the heart in tune,
And but for that the weary spleen
Wad plague us late and soon;
A bonnie lass, a canty wife,
For sic is nature's law;
Without that charmer o' our lives,
There's scarce a charm ava.
The Corbie and Craw.
[Alex. Carlile.]
The corbie wi' his roupy throat,
Cried frae the leafless tree,
"Come o'er the loch, come o'er the loch,
Come o'er the loch to me."
The craw put up his sooty head,
And look'd o'er the nest whare he lay,
And gied a flaf wi' his rousty wings,
And cried "whare tae? whare tae?"
Cor. "Te pike a dead man that's lying
A hint yon meikle stane."
Cra. "Is he fat, is he fat, is he fat, is he fat?
If no, we may let him alane."
Cor. "He cam' frae merry England, to steal
The sheep, and kill the deer."
Cra. "I'll come, I'll come, for an Englishman
Is aye the best o' cheer."
Cor. "O we may breakfast on his breast,
And on his back may dine;
For the lave a' fled to their ain countrie,
And they've ne'er been back sinsyne."
The Tod.
"Eh," quo' the tod, "it's a braw licht nicht,
The win's i' the wast, and the mune shines bricht,
The win's i' the wast, and the mune shines bricht,
An' I'll awa' to the toun, O.
"I was down amang yon shepherd's scroggs,
I'd like to been worried by his dogs,
But, by my sooth! I minded his hogs
That nicht I cam' to the toun, O."
He's ta'en the grey goose by the green sleeve,
"Ech, ye auld witch! nae langer shall ye live;
Your flesh it is tender, your banes I maun prieve,
For that I cam' to the toun, O."
Up gat the auld wife out o' her bed,
And out o' the window she shot her auld head,
"Eh, gudeman! the grey goose is dead,
An' the tod has been i' the toun, O."
My Mother bids me bind.
[The authoress of this song, and of others which we shall presently quote, was Mrs. John Hunter, wife of the distinguished anatomist and physiologist, John Hunter, whose brother, William, founded the Hunterian Museum at Glasgow. Her maiden name was Anne Home, and she was the eldest daughter of Robert Home of Greenlaw, in Berwickshire, a surgeon in the army. She was born in 1742, married in 1771, and died in 1821. A volume of her poems was published at London in 1802, dedicated to her son.]
My mother bids me bind my hair
With bands of rosy hue,
Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare,
And lace my boddice blue.
