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141

SONGS.

THE ROCK AND THE WEE PICKLE TOW.

There was an auld wife an' a wee pickle tow,
An' she wad gae try the spinning o't;
She louted her down, an' her rock took a low,
An' that was a bad beginning o't.
She sat an' she grat, an' she flet an' she flang,
An' she threw an' she blew, an' she wrigl'd an' wrang,
An' she choaked an' boaked, an' cry'd like to mang,
“Alas for the dreary spinning o't!
I've wanted a sark for these eight years an' ten,
An' this was to be the beginning o't;
But I vow I shall want it for as lang again,
Or ever I try the spinning o't;
For never since ever they ca'd me as they ca' me,
Did sick a mishap an' misanter befa' me;
But ye shall hae leave baith to hang me an' draw me,
The neist time I try the spinning o't.
I hae keeped my house for these threescore o' years,
An' ay I kept free o' the spinning o't;
But how I was sarked foul fa' them that speers!
For it minds me upo' the beginning o't.
142

But our women are now-a-days grown sae bra',
That ilk ane maun hae a sark, an' some hae twa,
The warlds were better when ne'er ane awa'
Had a rag but ane at the beginning o't.
Foul fa' her that ever advis'd me to spin,
That had been so lang a-beginning o't!
I might well have ended as I did begin,
Nor have got sick a skair with the spinning o't.
But they'll say, she's a wyse wife that kens her ain weerd;
I thought on a day it should never be speer'd
‘How loot ye the low take your rock by the beard,
When ye yeed to try the spinning o't?’
The spinning, the spinning, it gars my heart sob,
When I think upo' the beginning o't;
I thought ere I died to have anes made a wob,
But still I had weers o' the spinning o't.
But had I nine dathers, as I hae but three,
The safest and soundest advice I cud gee
Is that they frae spinning wad keep their hands free,
For fear of a bad beginning o't.
Yet in spite of my counsel if they will needs run
The drearysome risk of the spinning o't,
Let them seek out a lythe in the heat of the sun,
And there venture o' the beginning o't.
But to do as I did, alas, and awow!
To busk up a rock at the cheek of the low,
Says that I had but little wit in my pow,
And as little ado with the spinning o't.
But yet after a', there is ae thing that grieves
My heart to think o' the beginning o't:
143

Had I won the length but of ae pair o' sleeves,
Then there had been word o' the spinning o't;
This I wad ha washen an' bleech'd like the snaw,
And o' my twa gardies like moggans wad draw,
An' then fouk wad say that auld Girzy was bra',
An' a' was upon her ain spinning o't.
But gin I wad shog about till a new spring,
I should yet hae a bout of the spinning o't;
A mutchkin of linseed I'd i' the yerd fling,
For a' the wanchansie beginning o't.
I'll gar my ain Tammie gae down to the how,
An' cut me a rock of a widdershines grow
Of good rantry-tree, for to carrie my tow,
An' a spindle of the same for the twining o't.
For now when I mind me, I met Maggy Grim,
This morning just at the beginning o't;
She was never ca'd chancy, but canny an' slim,
An' sae it has fair'd of my spinning o't.
But an' my new rock were anes cutted an' dry,
I'll a' Maggie's can an' her cantraps defy,
An' but onie sussie the spinning I'll try,
An' ye's a' hear o' the beginning o't.”
Quo Tibby her dather: “Tak tent fat ye say;
The never a ragg we'll be seeking o't.
Gin ye anes begin, ye'll tarveal's night an' day,
Sae it's vain ony mair to be speaking o't.
Since Lambas I'm now gaing thirty an' twa,
An' never a dud sark had I yet gryt or sma';
An' what war am I? I'm as warm an' as bra'
As thrummy-tail'd Meg that's a spinner o't.
To labour the lint-land an' then buy the seed,
An' then to yoke me to the harrowing o't,
144

An' syne loll amon't an' pike out ilka weed,
Like swine in a sty at the farrowing o't;
Syne powing and ripling an' steeping, an' then
To gar's gae an' spread it upo' the cauld plain;
An' then after a' may be labour in vain,
When the wind and the weet gets the fusion o't.
But tho' it shou'd anter the weather to byde,
Wi' beetles we're set to the drubbing o't;
An' then frae our fingers to gnidge aff the hide,
With the wearisome wark o' the rubbing o't.
An' syne ilka tait maun be heckl'd out-throw;
The lint putten ae gate, anither the tow;
Syne on on a rock wi't, an' it taks a low.
The back o' my hand to the spinning o't!”
Quo Jenny: “I think, 'oman, ye're i' the right,
Set your feet ay a-spar to the spinning o't.
We may tak our advice frae our ain mither's fright
That she gat, when she try'd the beginning o't.
But they'll say that auld fouk are twice bairns indeed,
An' sae she has kythed it, but there's nae need
To sickan an amshack that we drive our head,
As lang's we're sae skair'd frae the spinning o't.”
Quo Nanny the youngest: “I've now heard you a',
An' dowie's your doom o' the spinning o't;
Gin ye, fan the cow flings, the cog cast awa',
Ye may see where ye'll lick up your winning o't.
But I see that but spinning I'll never be bra',
But gae by the name of a dilp or a da',
Sae lack where ye like, I shall anes shak a fa',
Afore I be dung with the spinning o't.
For well I can mind me when black Willie Bell
Had Tibbie there just at the winning o't,
145

What blew up the bargain, she kens well hersell,
Was the want of the knack of the spinning o't.
An' now, poor 'oman, for ought that I ken,
She never may get sick an offer again.
But pine away bit an' bit like Jenkin's hen,
An' naething to wyte but the spinning o't.
But were it for naething but just this alane,
I shall yet hae a bout o' the spinning o't.
They may cast me for ca'ing me black at the bean,
But nae 'cause I shun'd the beginning o't.
But be that as it happens, I care not a strae;
But nane of the lads shall hae it to say,
When they come till woo, ‘She kens naething avae,
Nor has onie can o' the spinning o't.’
In the days they ca'd yore, gin auld fouks had but won
To a surkoat hough-side for the winning o't,
Of coat raips well cut by the cast o' their bun,
They never sought mair o' the spinning o't.
A pair of gray hoggers well clinked benew,
Of nae other lit but the hue of the ew,
With a pair of rough rullions to scuff thro' the dew,
Was the fee they sought at the beginning o't.
But we maun hae linen, an' that maun hae we,
An' how get we that but the spinning o't?
How can we hae face for to seek a gryt fee,
Except we can help at the winning o't?
An' we maun hae pearlins an' mabbies an' cocks,
An' some other thing that the ladies ca' smokes;
An' how get we that gin we tak na our rocks,
And pow what we can at the spinning o't?
146

'Tis needless for us for to tak our remarks
Frae our mither's miscooking the spinning o't;
She never kend ought o' the gueed of the sarks,
Frae this aback to the beginning o't.
Twa-three ell of plaiden was a' that was sought
By our auld-warld bodies, an' that boot be bought;
For in ilka town sickan things was na wrought,
So little they kend o' the spinning o't.”

WILT THOU GO AND MARRY, KETTY?

[_]

To the Tune of “Mullachard's Reel.”

Wilt thou go and marry, Ketty?
Could'st thou, think'st thou, take a man?
'Twere a pity, you so pretty
Should not do the thing you can.
You're a pretty, charming creature,
Wherefore should you ly alone?
Beautie's of a fading nature,
Has a season to be gone.
Therefore, while ye're blooming, Ketty,
Listen to the loving swain;
Take example by fair Betty,
Once the darling o' the men;
Who with her coy and haughty nature
Kept them off, till she grew old;
Now she's hiss'd by every creature,
Let not this of you be told.
And yet, my dear and lovely Ketty,
I hae this one thing to tell:
147

I wad wish no man to get ye,
Save it were my very sell.
Therefore take me at my offer,
Or behad, an' I'll tak you.
He's worth no mistris that would scoff her.
Marry, Ket, an' then we'll woo.
Many words are useless, Ketty,
You do want, and so do I;
Sure you want that one should get ye,
And this want I can supply.
Say then, Ketty, so you take me
As your only choice of men,
Never after to forsake me,
And the priest will say Amen.
An' then, an' then, an' then, O Ketty,
Then we're marri'd, what comes then?
Then no other man will get ye,
For ye'll be my very ain.
Then we'll kiss and clap at pleasure,
Nor take notice of envy,
Once I've got my lovely treasure,
Let the world gaze and die.

TO THE BEGGING WE WILL GO.

Of a' the trades that ever was,
The begging is the best;
When I am tyr'd begging,
I will ly down and rest.
To the begging we will go, will go, will go,
To the begging we will go.
148

An' first I'll have a meal-pock,
Of good aum'd leather made,
To had at least a firlot,
An' room for beef and bread.
To the begging, &c.
I'll next unto the turner,
An' cause him turn a dish,
To had at least three chopins,
For less I wad na wish.
To the begging, &c.
I'll then unto the cobler,
An' cause him sole my shoon
An inch thick i' the boddom,
An' clouted well aboon.
To the begging, &c.
I'll carry to the taylor
A web of hoding gray,
That he may mak a clock of it,
To hap me night and day.
To the begging, &c.
Then I'll unto some greasy cook,
An' buy frae him a hat,
That is baith stiff and weather-proof,
An' glitt'ring o'er wi' fatt.
To the begging, &c.
Then with a pike-staff i' my hand,
To close my begging stock,
I'll go unto some lucky wife,
To hansel my new pock.
To the begging, &c.
149

But yet ere I begin my trade,
I'll let my beard grow strang,
Nor pair my nails for year and day,
For beggars use them lang.
To the begging, &c.
I'll put no water o' my hands,
As little o' my face,
For still the lowner like I am,
The more my trade I'll grace.
To the begging, &c.
When I the men at work espie,
I'll hirple to the house;
If nane be in but the goodwife,
Then I'll crack wondrous crouse.
To the begging, &c.
I'll seek frae her my lodging,
Tho' it be far frae night,
Then to let me be trudging,
She'll sair me right an' tight.
To the begging, &c.
At ilka house I'll play the same,
Till it be growing mark,
And the goodman be sitten down,
And come in frae his wark.
To the begging, &c.
Then saftly leaning o'er my staff,
I'll say wi' hat in hand,
“Will the poor man get lodging here?
Alas! I dow na stand.”
To the begging, &c.
150

Then lucky happily will say,
“Poor man, we hae na room:
Ere a' our fouks be set about,
We wadna had your thumb.”
To the begging, &c.
“Then well-I-wat, goodwife,” I'll say,
“I's no seek near the fire;
Let me but rest my weary banes,
Behind backs at the spire.
To the begging, &c.
I'll seek but bree out of the pot,
Frae 'mang your boiling kail,
To be my supper brose, for I
My sell hae cap an' meal.”
To the begging, &c.
“Hout ay, poor man, come ben your wa',”
The gossip syne will say;
“We'll ca' a wedge to make you room;
'T'as been a cauldriff day.”
To the begging, &c.
When at the fire I'm set a wee,
Then I'll begin and sing,
An' do my best to make them gauf
All round about the ring.
To the begging, &c.
I'll pick up a' the merry tales,
That I hear anywhere;
An' all the news of town and land,
And O! I'll tell them clare.
To the begging, &c.
151

When the goodwife begins to rise,
And ready make the kail,
Then I'll bang out my beggar dish,
An' stap it fou o' meal.
To the begging, &c.
Then may be the goodwife will say,
“Poor man, let be your meal.
Ye're welcome to your brose the night,
And to your bread an' kail.”
To the begging, &c.
And then I will be sure to pray,
To had them a' their heal,
And wish that never they nor theirs
Want either milk or meal.
To the begging, &c.
But then I'll never mind when the
Goodman to labour cries;
The thivel on the pottage pan,
Shall strick my hour to rise.
To the begging, &c.
And when I'm tursing at my pocks,
If the goodwife shall say,
“Stay still, an' get your morning meal;
What maks your haste away?”
To the begging, &c.
O then, what bony words I'll gee!
And roose her out of wit,
And pray, as lang as I do gang,
That still she there may sit.
To the begging, &c.
152

When I of any weddings hear,
I'll cast me to be there;
And pray my hearty benison
Unto the winsome pair.
To the begging, &c.
Then with my cap into my hand,
My hat into the other,
Wherever fouk are drinking bauld,
Then I'll come bobbing thither.
To the begging, &c.
Then I will to the minstrel say—
For they are never scant—
“Wi' leave o' the good company,
Play me the beggar's rant.”
To the begging, &c.
Then will I wallop out a dance,
Or tell some merry tale,
Till some good fellow in my dish
Turn o'er the stoup and ale.
To the begging, &c.
Then I will drink their healths about,
And wish them a' good heal;
And pray they never want enough,
Nor yet a heart to deal.
To the begging, &c.
But I am o'er lang frae my trade,
If things shall answer sae;
'Tis time that I were at the gate,
An' tursing up the brae.
To the begging, &c.
153

If things shall answer to my scheme,
I's come again and tell;
But if I hae mistane my trade,
I's keep it to my sell.
To the begging, &c.

MARRI'D AND WOO'D AN' A'.

Marri'd an' woo'd an' a',
Marri'd an' woo'd an' a',
The dandilly toss of the parish,
Is marri'd and woo'd an' a'.
The wooers will now ride thinner,
And by when they wonted to ca'.
'Tis needless to speer for the lassie
That's marri'd an' woo'd an' a'.
The girss had na freedom of growing,
As lang as she was na awa';
Nor i' the town could there be stowing,
For wooers that wonted to ca'.
For drinking an' dancing an' brulzies,
An' boxing an' shaking o' fa's,
The town was forever in tulzies;
But now the lassie's awa'.
But had they but kend her as I did,
Their errand it wad hae been sma';
She neither kend spinning nor carding,
Nor brewing nor baking ava'.
154

But the wooers ran a' mad upon her,
Because she was bony an' bra',
An' sae I dread will be seen on her,
When she's by hand and awa'.
He'll roose her but sma' that has marri'd her,
Now when he's gotten her a',
And wish, I fear, he had miscarri'd her,
Tocher and ribbons an' a'.
For her art it lay a' in her dressing,
But gin her bras anes were awa',
I fear she'll turn out o' the fesson,
An' knit up her muggans wi' straw.
For yesterday I yeed to see her,
An' O! she was wonderous bra',
Yet she cry'd till her husband to gee her
An ell of red ribbons, or twa.
He up, and he set down beside her
A reel and a wheelie to ca';
She said, Was he this gate to guide her?
An' out at the door, an' awa'.
Her neist rode was hame till her mither,
Who speer'd at her, Now how was a'?
She says till her, “Was't for nae ither,
That I was marry'd awa',
But gae an' sit down till a wheelie,
An' at it baith night an' day ca',
An' then hae it reel'd by a cheelie
That ever was crying to draw?”
Her mither says till her: “Hegh, lassie,
He's wyssest, I fear, o' the twa;
155

Ye'll hae litle to put i' the bassie,
Gin ye be awkward to draw.
'Tis now ye should work like a tyger,
An' at it baith wallop an' ca',
As lang's ye hae youthit an' vigor,
An' littleanes an' debt are awa'.
Your thrift it will look little bouked,
An' ye had a red weam or twa;
An' think yoursell stress'd when ye're souked,
Tho' ye sud do nae mair ava',
But sit i' the flet like a midden,
An' for your necessities ca'.
An' sae ye had best to do bidding,
As lang's ye hae feauto to ca'.
Sae swyth awa' hame to your hadding,
Mair fool than when ye came awa';
Ye maunna now keep ilka wedding,
Nor gae sae clean-finger'd an' bra';
But mind wi' a neiper ye're yoked,
And that ye your end o't maun draw,
Or else ye deserve to be docked,
Sae that is an answer for a'.”
Young luckie now finds hersell nidder'd,
An' wist na well what gate to ca',
But wi' hersell even consider'd,
That hamewith were better to draw;
An e'en tak her chance o' her landing,
However the matter might fa'.
Fouk need no on fraits to be standing,
That's marry'd and woo'd an' a'.
156

WHAT AILS THE LASSES AT ME?

[_]

To the Tune “An' the Kirk wad let me be.”

I am a batchelor winsome,
A farmer by rank and degree,
An' few I see gang out mair handsome
To kirk or to market than me.
I have outsight and insight and credit,
And from any eelist I'm free;
I'm well enough boarded and bedded,
And what ails the lasses at me?
My boughts of good store are no scanty,
My byrs are well stocked wi' ky,
Of meal i' my girnels is plenty,
An' twa or three easments forby.
An' horse to ride out when they're weary,
An' cock with the best they can see,
An' then be ca'd dawty and deary—
I fairly what ails them at me.
Behind backs, afore fouk, I've woo'd them,
An' a' the gates o't that I ken;
An' when they leugh o' me, I trow'd them,
An' thought I had won, but what then?
When I speak of matters they grumble,
Nor are condescending and free,
But at my proposals ay stumble.
I wonder what ails them at me.
I've try'd them baith highland an' lowland,
Where I a good bargain cud see;
But nane o' them fand I wad fall in
Or say they wad buckle wi' me.
157

With jooks an' wi' scraps I've address'd them,
Been with them baith modest and free;
But whatever way I caress'd them,
There's something still ails them at me.
O, if I kend but how to gain them,
How fond of the knack wad I be!
Or what an address could obtain them,
It should be twice welcome to me.
If kissing and clapping wad please them,
That trade I should drive till I die;
But however I study to ease them,
They've still an exception at me.
There's wratacks an' cripples an' cranshaks,
An' a' the wandoghts that I ken,
No sooner they speak to the wenches
But they are ta'en far enough ben.
But when I speak to them that's stately,
I find them ay ta'en with the gee,
An' get the denial right flatly.
What think ye can ail them at me?
I have yet but ae offer to make them,
If they wad but hearken to me;
And that is, I'm willing to tak them
If they their consent wad but gee.
Let her that's content write a billet,
An' get it transmitted to me.
I hereby engage to fulfill it,
Tho' cripple, tho' blind she sud be.
158

BILLET BY JEANY GRADDEN.

Dear batchleour, I've read your billet,
Your strait an' your hardships I see;
An' tell you it shall be fulfilled,
Tho' it were by none other but me.
These forty years I've been neglected,
An' nane has had pity on me;
Such offer should not be rejected,
Whoever the offerer be.
For beauty, I lay no claim to it,
Or may be I had been away;
Tho' tocher or kindred could do it,
I have no pretensions to thae;
The most I can say, I'm a woman,
An' that I a wife want to be;
An' I'll tak exception at no man
That's willing to tak nane at me.
And now I think I may be cocky,
Since fortune has smurtl'd on me;
I'm Jenny, an' ye shall be Jockie;
'Tis right we together sud be;
For nane of us cud find a marrow,
So sadly forfairn were we,
Fouk sud no at any thing tarrow,
Whose chance looked naething to be.
On Tuesday speer for Jeany Gradden.
When I i' my pens ween to be,
Just at the sign of The Old Maiden,
Where ye shall be sure to meet me.
159

Bring with you the priest for the wedding,
That a' things just ended may be,
An' we'll close the whole with the bedding,
An' wha'll be sae merry as we?
A cripple I'm not, ye forsta' me,
Tho' lame of a hand that I be;
Nor blind is there reason to ca' me,
Altho' I see but with ae eye;
But I'm just the chap that you wanted,
So tightly our state doth agree;
For nane wad hae you, ye have granted;
As few, I confess, wad hae me.

THE BRIDE'S BREAST-KNOT.

O tight and bony was the bride,
When she got on her breast-knot;
Her father that sat her beside,
That it was Peggy wist not;
Her head with lawn was cover'd o'er,
With edgings fine all set before,
And kissing strings three yards and more,
But naething like the breast-knot.
O the bony, O the bony, O the bony breast-knot!
The lad thought he was far behind
That her that had it kist not;
With specks of gold it was o'er laid,
And was baith massy, long and bred,
And many a loop and twining had,
Ere it became a breast-knot.
160

When in the morning she was drest
In her new gown, she mist not
To bid her maid put on the rest,
Especially the breast-knot;
She was a seamstress to her trade,
And wondrous dressy fike she made;
At last her ignorance betraid,
For right the knot she keest not.
The bride stood up afore the glass,
And what to do she wist not,
Because her maid mistook the place
Of her new bridal breast-knot.
She plac'd it up, she plac'd it down,
Threw off and then put on her gown;
At last she fell into a swoon,
'Twas lucky that she burst not.
When she o'ercame, with tears she cry'd,
“Alas my bony breast-knot!
I better ne'er had been a bride,
Than thus to slip the first knot.”
The taylor, that was there all night,
Came in and said he'd set it right.
You'd laugh to see the monky pight,
How he set up the breast-knot.
Now of her pain the bride is eas'd,
But at the bodie keest not
A sixpence, that her mind had pleas'd
In placing of her breast-knot.
He looked sair, that she should do't,
And downward to his pocket bow'd;
But yet she never understood
The clinking of his waistcoat.
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