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WILLIE BREW'D A PECKO MAUT.

O, WILLIE brew'd a peck o' maut,

And Rob and Allan cam to see ;
Three blither hearts, that lee-lang night,

Ye wad na find in Christendie.

We are na fou, we're na that fou,

But just a drappie in our d'e;
The cock may craw, the day may daw,

And ay we'll taste the barley bree.

Here are we met, three merry boys,

Three merry boys I trow are we; And mony a night we've merry been, And mony mae we hope to be!

We are na fou, &c.

It is the moon, I ken her horn,

That's blinkin in the lift sae hie ;
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
But by my sooth she'll wait a wee!

We are na fou, &c.

Wha first shall rise to gang awa,

A cuckold, coward loun is he ! Wha last beside his chair shall fa', He is the king amang us three!

We are na fou, &c.

TAE BLUE-EY'D LASSIE.

I GAED a waefu' gate yestreen,

A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ;
I gat my death frae twa sweet een,

Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue.
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright;

Her lips like roses, wat wi' dew, Her heaving bosom, lily-white ;-

It was her een sae bonnie blue.

She talk'd, she smild, my heart she wyld,

She charm'd my soul, I wist na how;
And ay the stound, the deadly wound,

Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue.
But spare to speak, and spare to speed;

She'll aiblins listen to my vow :
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead

To her twa een sae bonnie blue.

THE BANKS OF NITH.

Tune Robie Donna Gorach.'

The Thames flows proudly to the sea,

Where royal cities stately stand; But sweeter flows the Nith to me,

Whare Commins ance had high commanel : When shall I see that honour'd land,

That winding stream I love so dear! Must wayward fortune's adverse hand For ever, ever keep me here?

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales,

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom ; How sweetly wind thy sloping dales,

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom! Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom,

Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, May there my latest hours consume,

Amang the friends of early days!

JOHN ANDERSON MY JO.

John Anderson my jo, John,

When we were first acquent; Your locks were like the raven,

Your bonnie brow was brent ; But now your brow is beld, John

Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow,

John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither ; And mony a canty day, John,

We've had wi' ane anither : Now we maun totter down, John,

But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot,

John Anderson my jo.

TAM GLEN.

My heart is a breaking, dear Tittie,

Some counsel unto me come len', To anger them a' is a pity;

But what will I do wi' Tam Glen?

I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow,

In poortith I might mak a fen'; What care I in riches to wallow,

If I mauna marry Tam Glen?

There's Lowrie the laird o’Drumeller,

'Guid day to you, brute,' he comes ben : He brags and he blaws o' his siller,

But when will he dance like Tam Glen?

My minnie does constantly deave me,

And bids me beware o' young men; They flatter, she says, to deceive me;

But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen?

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him,

He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten: But, if it's ordain'd I maun take him,

O wha will I get but Tam Glen?

Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing,

My heart to my mou gied a sten; For thrice I drew ane without failing,

And thrice it was written, Tam Glen.

The last Halloween I was waukin

My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken;
His likeness cam up the house staukin,

And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen!

Come counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry;

I'll gie you my bonnie black hen,
Gif ye will advise me to marry

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen.

MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL.

O MEIKLE thinks my luve o' my beauty,

And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin; But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie,

My Tocher's the jewel has charms for him. It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree;

It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee ; My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi’ the siller,

He can na hae luve to spare for me.

Your proffer o'luve's an airl.penny,

My Tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ; But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin,

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. Ye're like to the timmer o’yon rotten wood,

Ye're like to the bark o'yon rotten tree, Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread,

And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me.

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