Songs and poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Songs and poems

by the Rev. John Skinner. With a sketch of his life, by H. G. Reid

Skinner, John (1721-1807)

POEMS.

SONGS.

TULLOCHGORUM.

JOHN O' BADENYON.

THE EWIE WI' THE CROOKIT HORN.

THE MARQUIS OF HUNTLY'S REEL.

THE OLD MAN'S SONG.

STILL IN THE WRONG.

LIZZY LIBERTY.

THE STIPENDLESS PARSON.

THE MAN OF ROSS.

A SONG ON THE TIMES.

SONG ON THE SCOTCH MILITIA.

THE AULD MINISTER'S SONG

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SONGS.

TULLOCHGORUM.

[_]

This, as Burns' says, “the best Scotch song ever Scotland saw” was suggested, during a political dispute, by Mrs Montgomery, at whose house in the village of Ellon, Aberdeenshire, Mr Skinner had been on a visit. It was first printed in the Scots Weekly Magazine for April 1776, a considerable time after the date of its composition.

Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cry'd,
And lay your disputes all aside,
What signifies't for folks to chide
For what was done before them:
Let Whig and Tory all agree,
Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory,
Whig and Tory all agree,
To drop their Whig-mig-morum;
Let Whig and Tory all agree
To spend the night wi' mirth and glee,
And cheerfu' sing alang wi' me
The Reel o' Tullochgorum.

O' Tullochgorum's my delight,
It gars us a' in ane unite,
And ony sumph that keeps a spite,
In conscience I abhor him:
For blyth and cheerie we'll be a',
Blyth and cheerie, blyth and cheerie,
Blyth and cheerie we'll be a',
And mak' a happy quorum;
For blyth and cheerie we'll be a'
As lang as we hae breath to draw,
And dance till we be like to fa'
The Reel o' Tullochgorum.

What needs there be sae great a fraise
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays,
I wadna gie our ain Strathspeys
For half a hunder score o' them;
They're dowf and dowie at the best,
Dowf and dowie, dowf and dowie,
Dowf and dowie at the best,
Wi' a' their variorum;
They're dowf and dowie at the best,
Their allegros and a' the rest,
They canna' please a Scottish taste
Compar'd wi' Tullochgorum.

Let warldly worms their minds oppress
Wi fears o' want and double cess,

And sullen sots themsells distress
Wi' keeping up decorum:
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,
Sour and sulky shall we sit
Like old philosophorum!
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit,
Nor ever try to shake a fit
To th' Reel o' Tullochgorum?

May choicest blessings aye attend
Each honest, open-hearted friend,
And calm and quiet be his end,
And a' that's good watch o'er him;
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Peace and plenty, peace and plenty,
Peace and plenty be his lot,
And dainties a great store o' them;
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Unstain'd by any vicious spot,
And may he never want a groat,
That's fond o Tullochgorum!

But for the sullen frumpish fool,
That loves to be oppression's tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten soul,
And discontent devour him;

May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,
Dool and sorrow be his chance,
And nane say, wae's me for him
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Wi' a' the ills that come frae France,
Wha e'er he be that winna dance
The Reel o' Tullochgorum.

JOHN O' BADENYON.

[_]

“This excellent song,” says Burns, “is the composition of my worthy friend old Skinner at Linshart.”

When first I came to be a man
Of twenty years or so,
I thought myself a handsome youth,
And fain the world would know;
In best attire I stept abroad,
With spirits brisk and gay,
And here and there and every where
Was like a morn in May;
No care I had nor fear of want,
But rambled up and down,
And for a beau I might have past
In country or in town;
I still was pleas'd where'er I went,
And when I was alone,
I tun'd my pipe and pleas'd myself
Wi' John o' Badenyon.

Now in the days of youthful prime
A mistress I must find,
For love, I heard, gave one an air
And ev'n improved the mind:

On Phillis fair above the rest
Kind fortune fixt my eyes,
Her piercing beauty struck my heart,
And she became my choice;
To Cupid now with hearty prayer
I offer'd many a vow;
And danc'd and sung, and sigh'd, and swore,
As other lovers do;
But, when at last I breath'd my flame,
I found her cold as stone;
I left the girl, and tun'd my pipe
To John o' Badenyon.

When love had thus my heart beguil'd
With foolish hopes and vain;
To friendship's port I steer'd my course,
And laugh'd at lovers' pain;
A friend I got by lucky chance,
'Twas something like divine,
An honest friend's a precious gift,
And such a gift was mine;
And now whatever might betide
A happy man was I,
In any strait I knew to whom
I freely might apply;
A strait soon came: my friend I try'd;
He heard, and spurn'd my moan;
I hy'd me home, and tun'd my pipe
To John o' Badenyon.

Methought I should be wiser next
And would a patriot turn,
Began to doat on Johnny Wilkes,
And cry up Parson Horne.
Their manly spirit I admir'd,
And prais'd their noble zeal,
Who had with flaming tongue and pen
Maintain'd the public weel;
But e'er a month or two had past,
I found myself betray'd,
'Twas self and party after all,
For a' the stir they made;
At last I saw the factious knaves
Insult the very throne,
I curs'd them a', and tun'd my pipe
To John o' Badenyon.

What next to do I mus'd a while,
Still hoping to succeed,
I pitch'd on books for company
And gravely try'd to read:
I bought and borrowed every where
And study'd night and day,
Nor mist what dean or doctor wrote
That happen'd in my way;

Philosophy I now esteem'd
The ornament of youth,
And carefully through many a page
I hunted after truth.
A thousand various schemes I try'd,
And yet was pleas'd with none,
I threw them by, and tun'd my pipe
To John o' Badenyon.

And now ye youngsters everywhere,
That wish to make a show,
Take heed in time, nor fondly hope
For happiness below;
What you may fancy pleasure here,
Is but an empty name,
And girls, and friends, and books, and so,
You'll find them all the same;
Then be advised and warning take
From such a man as me;
I'm neither Pope nor Cardinal,
Nor one of high degree;
You'll meet displeasure every where;
Then do as I have done,
Ev'n tune your pipe and please yourselves
With John o' Badenyon.

This Song was composed when Wilkes, Horne, &c., were making a noise about liberty.

THE EWIE WI' THE CROOKIT HORN.

[_]

This song was written to an old Highland reel tune at the request of Dr. Beattie of Aberdeen about the time Mr Skinner occupied the farm of Mains of Ludquharn.

Were I but able to rehearse
My Ewie's praise in proper verse,
I'd sound it forth as loud and fierce
As ever piper's drone could blaw;
The Ewie wi' the crookit horn,
Wha had kent her might hae sworn
Sic a Ewe was never born,
Hereabout nor far awa',
Sic a Ewe was never born,
Hereabout nor far awa',

I never needed tar nor keil
To mark here upo' hip or heel,
Her crookit horn did as weel
To ken her by amo' them a';
She never threaten'd scab nor rot,
But keepit aye her ain jog-trot,
Baith to the fauld and to the cot,
Was never sweir to lead nor caw,
Baith to the fauld and to the cot, &c.

Cauld nor hunger never dang her,
Wind nor wet could never wrang her,
Anes she lay an ouk and langer
Furth aneath a wreath o' snaw
Whan ither Ewies lap the dyke,
And eat the kail for a' the tyke,
My Ewie never play'd the like,
But tyc'd about the barn wa';
My Ewie never play'd the like, &c.

A better or a thriftier beast,
Nae honest man could weel hae wist,
For, silly thing, she never mist,
To hae ilk' year a lamb or twa';
The first she had I gae to Jock,
To be to him a kind o' stock,
And now the laddie has a flock
O' mair nor thirty head ava';
And now the laddie has a flock, &c.

I lookit aye at even' for her,
Lest mishanter shou'd come o'er her,
Or the fowmart might devour her,
Gin the beastie bade awa;
My Ewie wi' the crookit horn,
Well deserv'd baith girse and corn,
Sic a Ewe was never born,
Hereabout nor far awa.
Sic a Ewe was never born, &c.

Yet last ouk, for a' my keeping,
(Wha can speak it without greeting?)
A villain cam' when I was sleeping,
Sta' my Ewie, horn and a':
I sought her sair upo' the morn,
An down aneath a buss o' thorn
I got my Ewie's crookit horn,
But my Ewie was awa'.
I got my Ewie's crookit horn, &c.

O! gin I had the loun that did it,
Sworn I have as well as said it,
Tho' a' the warld should forbid it,
I wad gie his neck a thra':
I never met wi' sic a turn,
As this sin ever I was born,
My Ewie wi' the crookit horn,
Silly Ewie stown awa',
My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c.

O! had she died o' crook or cauld,
As Ewies do when they grow auld,
It wad na been, by mony fauld,
Sae sair a heart to nane o's a':
For a' the claith that we hae worn,
Frae her and her's sae aften shorn,
The loss o' her we cou'd hae born,
Had fair strae-death ta'en her awa'.
The loss o' her we cou'd hae born, &c.

But thus, poor thing, to lose her life,
Aneath a bleedy villain's knife,
I'm really fley't that our guidwife
Will never win aboon't ava:
O! a' ye bards benorth Kinghorn,
Call your muses up and mourn,
Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn,
Stown frae's, and fellt and a'!
Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c.

THE MARQUIS OF HUNTLY'S REEL.

[_]

In mentioning that the “Non-juring Clergyman at Linshart, near Peterhead,” composed this Song, Burns adds, “and what is of still more consequence, he is one of the worthiest of mankind.” It was written to an air, “The Marqúis of Huntly's Reel,” by William Marshall, butler to the Duke of Gordon, a distinguished composer of Scottish airs, and also eminent as a violinist.

Tune your fiddles, tune them sweetly,
Play the Marquis' reel discreetly,
Here we are, a band completely
Fitted to be jolly.—
Come, my boys, blythe and gawcie,
Every youngster chuse his lassie,
Dance wi' life, and be not saucy,
Shy nor melancholy.
Come, my boys, &c.

Lay aside your sour grimaces,
Clouded brows, and drumly faces,
Look about, and see their Graces,
How they smile delighted;
Now's the season to be merry,
Hang the thoughts of Charon's ferry,
Time enough to turn camsterry
When we're auld and doited.
Now's the season, &c.

Butler, put about the claret,
Thro' us a' divide and share it,
Gordon-Castle well can spare it,
It has claret plenty.
Wine's the true inspiring liquor,
Draffy drink may please the Vicar,
When he grasps the foaming bicker,
Vicars are not dainty.
Wine's the true inspiring liquor, &c.

We'll extoll our noble Master,
Sprung from many a brave ancestor,—
Heaven preserve him from disaster,
So we pray in duty.
Prosper, too, our pretty Duchess,
Safe from all distressful touches,
Keep her out of Pluto's clutches,
Long in health and beauty.
Prosper, too, our pretty Duchess, &c.

Angels guard their gallant boy,
Make him long his father's joy,
Sturdy, like the heir of Troy,
Stout and brisk and healthy.
Pallas, grant him every blessing,
Wit and strength and size increasing,
Plutus, what's in thy possessing,
Make him rich and wealthy.
Pallas, grant him every blessing, &c.

Youth, solace him with thy pleasure,
In refin'd and worthy measure;
Merit, gain him choicest treasure,
From the Royal donor.
Famous may he be in story,
Full of days, and full of glory,
To the grave, when old and hoary,
May he go with honour!
Famous may he be in story, &c.

Gordons, join our hearty praises,
Honest, though in homely phrases,
Love our cheerful spirits raises,
Lofty as the lark is:
Echo, waft our wishes daily,
Thro' the grove, and thro' the alley,
Sound o'er every hill and valley,
Blessings on our Marquis
Echo, waft our wishes daily, &c.

THE OLD MAN'S SONG.

[_]

Tune—Dumbarton Drums.

[_]

This song, the author says, in a letter to Burns, “is entirely descriptive of my own sentiments,” and the beautiful picture of contentment—the venerable old man with his children and grandchildren around him —was fully realised in his own experience.

O! why should old age so much wound us, O?
There is nothing in it all to confound us, O;
For how happy now am I,
With my old wife sitting by;
And our bairns and our oys all around us, O;
For how happy now am I, &c.

We began in the warld wi' naething, O,
And we've jogg'd on, and toil'd for the ae thing, O;
We made use of what we had,
And our thankful hearts were glad;
When we got the bit meat and the claithing, O,
We made use of what we had, &c.

We have liv'd all our life-time contented, O,
Since the day we became first acquainted, O:
It's true we've been but poor,
And we are so to this hour;
But we never yet repin'd or lamented, O.
It's true we've been but poor, &c.

When we had any stock, we ne'er vauntit, O,
Nor did we hing our heads when we wantit, O;
But we always gave a share
Of the little we could spare,
When it pleas'd a kind Heaven to grant it, O.
But we always gave a share, &c.

We never laid a scheme to be wealthy, O,
By means that were cunning or stealthy, O;
But we always had the bliss,
And what further could we wiss,
To be pleas'd with ourselves, and be healthy, O.
But we always had the bliss, &c.

What tho' we cannot boast of our guineas, O,
We have plenty of Jockies and Jeanies, O;
And these, I'm certain, are
More desirable by far
Than a bag full of poor yellow steinies, O,
And these, I am certain, are, &c.

We have seen many wonder and ferly, O,
Of changes that almost are yearly, O,
Among rich folks up and down,
Both in country and in town,
Who now live but scrimply and barely, O,
Among rich folks up and down, &c.

Then why should people brag of prosperity, O?
A straiten'd life we see is no rarity, O;
Indeed we've been in want,
And our living's been but scant,
Yet we never were reduced to need charity, O.
Indeed we've been in want, &c.

In this house we first came together, O,
Where we've long been a father and mither, O;
And tho' not of stone and lime,
It will last us all our time;
And, I hope, we shall ne'er need anither, O.
And tho' not of stone and lime, &c.

And when we leave this poor habitation, O,
We'll depart with a good commendation, O;
We'll go hand in hand, I wiss,
To a better house than this,
To make room for the next generation, O.
We'll go hand in hand, I wiss, &c.
Then why should old age so much wound us, &c.

STILL IN THE WRONG.

[_]

To its own Tune.

It has long been my fate to be thought in the wrong,
And my fate it continues to be;
The wise and the wealthy still make it their song,
And the clerk and the cottar agree.
There is nothing I do, and there's nothing I say,
But some one or other thinks wrong;
And to please them I find there is no other way,
But do nothing, and still hold my tongue.

Says the free-thinking Sophist, “The times are refin'd
In sense to a wondrous degree;
Your old fashion'd faith does but fetter the mind,
And it's wrong not to seek to be free.”
Says the sage Politician, “Your natural share
Of talents would raise you much higher,
Than thus to crawl on in your present low sphere,
And it's wrong in you not to aspire.”

Says the Man of the World, “Your dull stoic life
Is surely deserving of blame?
You have children to care for, as well as a wife,
And it's wrong not to lay up for them.”
Says the fat Gormandizer, “To eat and to drink
Is the true summum bonum of man:

Life is nothing without it, whate'er you may think,
And it's wrong not to live while you can.”

Says the new made Divine, “Your old modes we reject,
Nor give ourselves trouble about them:
It is manners and dress that procure us respect,
And it's wrong to look for it without them.”
Says the grave peevish Saint, in a fit of the spleen,
“Ah! me, but your manners are vile:
A parson that's blythe is a shame to be seen,
And it's wrong in you even to smile.”

Says the Clown, when I tell him to do what he ought,
“Sir, whatever your character be,
To obey you in this I will never be brought,
And it's wrong to be meddling with me.”
Says my Wife, when she wants this or that for the house,
“Our matters to ruin must go:
Your reading and writing is not worth a souse,
And it's wrong to neglect the house so.”

Thus all judge of me by their taste or their wit,
And I'm censur'd by old and by young,
Who in one point agree, though in others they split,
That in something I'm still in the wrong.
But let them say on to the end of the song,
It shall make no impression on me:
If to differ from such be to be in the wrong,
In the wrong I hope always to be.

LIZZY LIBERTY.

[_]

Tune—Tibbie Fowler i' the Glen.

[_]

This song was written during the political commotions which agitated Europe shortly after the great French Revolution of 1789.

There lives a lassie i' the braes,
And Lizzy Liberty they ca' her,
Whan she has on her Sunday's claes,
Ye never saw a lady brawer;
So a' the lads are wooing at her,
Courting her but canna get her,
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there's ow'r mony wooing at her!

Her mither ware a tabbit mutch,
Her father was an honest dyker,
She's a black eyed wanton witch,
Ye winna shaw me mony like her,
So a' the lads are wooing at her,
Courting her but canna get her,
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, so mony's wooing at her:

A kindly lass she is, I'm seer,
Has fowth o' sense and smeddum in her,
And nae a swankie far nor near.
But tries wi' a' his might to win her:

They're wooing at her, fain would hae her,
Courting her but canna get her,
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there's ow'r mony wooing at her.

For kindly tho' she be nae doubt,
She manna thole the marriage tether,
But likes to rove and rink about,
Like highland cowt amo' the heather;
Yet a' the lads are wooing at her,
Courting her but canna get her,
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony's wooing at her.

It's seven year, and some guid mair,
Syn Dutch Mynheer made courtship till her,
A merchant bluff and fu' o' care,
Wi chuffy cheeks, and bags o' siller;
So Dutch Mynheer was wooing at her,
Courting her but cudna get her,
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, has ow'r mony wooing at her.

Neist to him came Baltic John,
Stept up the brae, and leukit at her,
Syne wear his wa wi' heavy moan,
And in a month or twa forgat her;
Baltic John was wooing at her,
Courting her but cudna get her,
Filthy elf she's nae herself, wi' sae mony wooing at her.

Syne after him cam Yankie Doodle,
Frae hyne ayont the muckle water;

Tho' Yankie's nae yet worth a boddle,
Wi' might and main he would be at her;
Yankie Doodle's wooing at her,
Courting her, but canna get her,
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony's wooing at her.

Now Monkey French is in a roar,
And swears that nane but he sall hae her,
Tho' he sud wade thro' bluid and gore,
It's nae the king sall keep him frae her:
So Monkey French is wooing at her,
Courting her, but canna get her,
Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her.

For France, nor yet her Flanders frien',
Need nae think that she'll come to them;
They've casten aff wi' a' their kin,
And grace and guid have flown fae them:
They're wooing at her, fain wad hae her,
Courting her, but canna get her,
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony's wooing at her.

A stately chiel, they ca' John Bull,
Is unco thrang and glaikit wi' her;
And gin he cud get a' his wull,
There's nane can say what he wad gi'e her:

Johnny Bull is wooing at her,
Courting her, but canna get her,
Filthy Ted, she'll never wed, as lang's sae mony's wooing at her.

Even Irish Teague, ayont Belfast,
Wadna care to speir about her;
And swears, till he sall breathe his last,
He'll never happy be without her:
Irish Teague is wooing at her,
Courting her, but canna get her,
Bonny Lizzie Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her.

But Donald Scot's the happy lad,
Tho' a' the lave sud try to rate him;
Whan he steps up the brae sae glad
She disna ken maist whare to set him:
Donald Scot is wooing at her,
Courting her, will maybe get her,
Bonny Lizzie Liberty, wow, sae mony's wooing at her.

Now Donald tak' a frien's advice,
I keen fu' weel ye fain wad hae her,
As ye are happy, sae be wise,
And ha'd ye wi' a smackie frae her:
Ye're wooing at her, fain wad hae her,
Courting her, will maybe get her,
Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there's ow'r mony wooing at her.

Ye're weel, and wat'sna, lad, they're sayin'
Wi' getting leave to dwall aside her;
And gin ye had her a' your ain,
Ye might nae find it mows to guide her.
Ye're wooing at her, fain wad hae her,
Courting her, will maybe get her,
Cunning quean, she's ne'er be mine, as lang's sae mony's wooing at her.

THE STIPENDLESS PARSON.

[_]

Tune—A Cobler there was, &c.

[_]

The humble parson whose position, pursuits, and wishes are here so happily sketched was no imaginary character, and of the worthy author himself it may be truly said that “contented he lived and lamented he died.”

How happy a life does the parson possess,
Who would be no greater, nor fears to be less;
Who depends on his book and his gown for support,
And derives no preferment from conclave or court,
Derry down, &c.

Without gleb or manse settl'd on him by law,
No stipend to sue for, nor vic'rage to draw;
In discharge of his office he holds him content,
With a croft and a garden, for which he pays rent.
Derry down, &c.

With a neat little cottage and furniture plain,
And a spare room to welcome a friend now and then,
With a good humour'd wife in his fortune to share,
And ease him at all times of family care.
Derry down, &c.

With a few of the Fathers, the oldest and best,
And some modern Extracts pick'd out from the rest,
With a Bible in Latin, and Hebrew, and Greek,
To afford him instruction each day of the week.
Derry down, &c.

With a pony to carry him when he has need,
And a cow to provide him some milk to his bread;
With a mug of brown ale when he feels himself for't
And a glass of good whisky in place of red port.
Derry down, &c.

What children he has, if any are given,
He thankfully trusts to the kindness of heaven;
To religion and virtue he trains them while young,
And with such a provision he does them no wrong.
Derry down, &c.

With labour below, and with help from above,
He cares for his flock, and is blest with their love:
Tho' his living perhaps in the main may be scant,
He is sure, while, they have, that he'll ne'er be in want.
Derry down, &c.

With no worldly projects nor hurries perplext,
He sits in his closet and studies his text;
And while he converses with Moses or Paul,
He envies not bishop, nor dean in his stall.
Derry down, &c.

Not proud to the poor, nor a slave to the great,
Neither factious in church, nor pragmatic in state,
He keeps himself quiet within his own sphere,
And finds work sufficient in preaching and pray'r.
Derry down, &c.

In what little dealings he's forc'd to transact,
He determines with plainness and candour to act,
And the great point on which his ambition is set,
Is to leave at the last neither riches nor debt.
Derry down, &c.

Thus calmly he steps thro' the valley of life,
Unencumbered with wealth, and a stranger to strife;
On the bustlings around him unmov'd he can look,
And at home always pleas'd with his wife and his book.
Derry down, &c.

And when in old age he drops into the grave,
This humble remembrance he wishes to have;
‘By good men respected, by the evil oft tried,
‘Contented he liv'd, and lamented he died!
Derry down, &c.

THE MAN OF ROSS.

[_]

Tune—Miss Ross's Reel.

When fops and fools together prate,
O'er punch or tea, of this or that,
What silly poor unmeaning chat
Does all their talk engross?
A nobler theme employs my lays,
And thus my honest voice I raise
In well deserved strains to praise
The worthy Man of Ross.

His lofty soul (would it were mine)
Scorns ev'ry selfish low design,
And ne'er was known to repine,
At any earthly loss:
But still contented, frank, and free,
In ev'ry state, whate'er it be,
Serene and stay'd we always see
The worthy Man of Ross.

Let misers hug their worldly store,
And gripe and pinch to make it more;
Their gold and silver's shining ore,
He counts it all but dross:
'Tis better treasure he desires;
A surer stock his passion fires,

And mild benevolence inspires
The worthy Man of Ross.

When want assails the widow's cot,
Or sickness strikes the poor man's hut,
When blasting winds or foggy rot
Augment the farmer's loss:
The sufferer straight knows where to go,
With all his wants and all his woe,
For glad experience leads him to
The worthy Man of Ross.

This man of Ross I'll daily sing,
With vocal note and lyric string,
And duly, when I've drank the king,
He'll be my second toss.
May heaven its choicest blessings send,
On such a man, and such a friend;
And still may all that's good attend
The worthy Man of Ross.

Now if you ask about his name,
And where he lives with such a fame,
Indeed I'll say you are to blame,
For truly inter nos,
'Tis what belongs to you and me,
And all of high or low degree,
In every sphere to try to be
The worthy Man of Ross.

A SONG ON THE TIMES.

[_]

Tune—Broom of the Cowdenknows.

When I began the world first,
It was not as 'tis now,
For all was plain and simple then,
And friends were kind and true:

O! the times, the weary weary times,
The times that I now see,
I think the world's all gone wrong,
From what it used to be.

There were not then high capering heads,
Prick'd up from ear to ear,
And clocks and caps were rarities,
For gentle folks to wear,

O! the times, the weary weary times, &c.

There's not an upstart mushroom now,
But what sets up for taste,
And not a lass in all the land,
But must be lady-drest.

O! the times, the weary weary times, &c.

Our young men married then for love,
So did our lasses too,

And children lov'd their parents dear,
As children ought to do.

O! the times, the weary weary times, &c

For O! the times are sadly chang'd,
A heavy change indeed!
For truth and friendship are no more,
And honesty is fled.

O! the times, the weary weary times, &c.

There's nothing now prevails but pride,
Among both high and low,
And strife, and greed, and vanity,
Is all that's minded now,

O! the times, the weary weary times, &c.

When I look through the world wide,
How times and fashions go,
It draws the tears from both my eyes,
And fills my heart with woe,

O! the times, the weary weary times,
The times that I now see,
I wish the world were at an end,
For it will not mend for me!

SONG ON THE SCOTCH MILITIA.

[_]

Tune—Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch.

Saw ye e'er a lawland lassie
Happy in her lawland laddie?
I was she sae blythe and gawsie,
As though I'd ca'd the king my daddie.
My laddie was my heart's delight,
Kind and canty was my Johnnie,
In liking him had I the wyte,
Whan a' the warld ca'd him bonnie?

Our bridal day was set, and a' thing
Ready made to pit's togither,
My tartan plaid, and mony bra' thing
I gat frae my honest mither.
A short fourteen days, Johnnie sware it,
Wu'd make me a' his ain for ever,
And right glad was I to hear it,
We sud now be parted never.

But O! there cam a wearie order,
About a thing they ca' militie;
Ye cam frae hyn ayont the border,
O! waly fa' the chiel that feish ye!
Cam to tak my Johnnie frae me,
Left me here to mourn about him,

And till he back again cum to me,
I'll never easy be without him.

Sae ance I thought, till ae lang night,
About my Johnnie I was dreamin,
When i' my sleep I saw him bright,
Wi' mony gentlemen and wimen;
He took my hand afore them a'
And gae me kindly kisses plenty,
A saxpence fyte he brak in twa,
His words were sweet as ony dainty.

“Till my militia days are ended,
Jeanie ye maun wait wi' pleasure,
Whan King and Country I've defended,
Ye shall then be a' my treasure.
Ye shall hear my gallant story,
How I fought in Jeanie's favour;
Fought wi' Frenchmen a' for glory,
And from their cruel claws to save her.”

When Scotland's faes are fairly frighten'd,
Never mair to glory o'er her,
Then our hearts will a' be lighten'd
Frae ony fear o' the great devourer.
Sae I'll yield to my country's laws,
And pray for her and Johnnie's honour;
Whan he is fighting in her cause,
May blessings ever light upon her!

THE AULD MINISTER'S SONG

[_]

Tune—“Auld lang syne.”

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
Or friendship e'er grow cauld?
Should we nae tighter draw the knot,
Aye as we're growing auld?
How comes it then, my worthy frien',
Who used to be sae kin',
We dinna for each ither speer,
As we did langsyne?

What though I am some aulder grown,
An' ablins nae sae gay;
What though these locks, ance hazel brown,
Are now well mix'd wi' gray:
I'm sure my heart nae caulder grows,
But as my years decline,
Still friendship's flame as warmly glows
As it did langsyne.

Sae well's I min' upo' the days
That we in youthfu' pride
Had used to ramble up the braes
On bonnie Boggie's side.

Nae fairies on the haunted green,
Where moonbeams twinkling shine,
Mair blythely frisk aroun' their queen,
Than we did langsyne.

Sae well's I min' ilk bonny spring
Ye on your harp did play;
An' how we used to dance and sing
The livelang simmer's day.
If ye hae not forgot the art
To strike that harp divine,
Ye'll fin' I still can play my part,
An' sing as auld langsyne.

Though ye live on the banks o' Doun,
And me besooth the Tay,
Ye well might ride to Faukland town
Some bonny simmer's day.
And at that place where Scotland's king
Aft birl'd the beer and wine,
Let's drink, an' dance, an' laugh, an' sing,
An' crack o' auld langsyne.