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Others seek they kenna what,
In looks, in carriage, and a' that;
Gi'e me love for her I court-
Love in love makes a' the sport.

Let love sparkle in her ee,
Let her love nae man but me;
That's the tocher-gude I prize,
There the lover's treasure lies.

Colours mingled unco fine,
Common notions lang sinsyne,
Never can engage my love,

Until my fancy first approve.

Allan Ramsay inserted this song in his "Miscellany "with the signature Q, to signify that it was old, with additions by himself. The air is also very ancient.


ANONYMOUS. From Herd's Collection, 1776.

A FRIEND o' mine cam' here yestreen,
An' he wad hae me doun

To drink a bottle o' ale wi' him

In the neist burrows toun.

But oh, indeed, it was, sir,

Sae far the waur for me;
For lang or e'er that I cam' hame
My wife had ta'en the gee.

We sat sae late and drank sae stout,
The truth I tell to you,

That lang or e'er the midnight cam',
We a' were roarin' fou.

My wife sits at the fireside,

And the tear blinds aye her ee;

The ne'er a bed wad she gang to,

But sit and tak' the gee.

In the mornin' sune, when I cam' doun,
The ne'er a word she spake,

But mony a sad and sour look,


And aye her head she'd shake.

'My dear," quo' I, "what aileth thee,

To look sae sour on me?

I'll never do the like again,
If you'll ne'er tak' the gee.”

When that she heard, she ran, she flang
Her arms, about my neck,

And twenty kisses in a crack
And, poor wee thing, she grat
"If you'll ne'er do the like again,
But bide at hame wi' me,
I'll lay my life, I'll be the wife
That never taks the gee."


SIR JOHN CLERK, of Pennycuick, Bart.; born about the year 1680, died 1755. From the "Charmer," Edinburgh, 1751.

MERRY may the maid be

That marries the miller,

For foul day and fair day

He's aye bringing till her;

He's aye a penny in his purse
For dinner and for supper;

And gin she please, a good fat cheese,
And lumps of yellow butter.

When Jamie first did woo me,

I spier'd what was his calling:
Fair maid, says he, oh, come and see ;
Ye're welcome to my dwelling.
Though I was shy, yet I could spy
The truth of what he told me,

And that his house was warm and couth,
And room in it to hold me.

Behind the door a bag of meal,
And in the kist was plenty

Of good hard cakes his mither bakes,
And bannocks were na scanty;
A good fat sow, a sleeky cow

Was standin' in the byre;

Whilst lazy puss, with mealy mous,
Was playing at the fire.

Good signs are these, my mither says,

And bids me tak' the miller;

For foul day and fair day

He's aye bringing till her:

For meal and malt she does na want,
Nor ony thing that's dainty;
And now and then a keckling hen
To lay her eggs in plenty.

In winter, when the wind and rain
Blaws o'er the house and byre,
He sits beside a clean hearthstane
Before a rousing fire;

With nut-brown ale he tells his tale,
Which rows him o'er fu' nappy:

Who'd be a king—a petty thing,

When a miller lives so happy?

This song originally appeared in the "Charmer" without the concluding stanza. It was afterwards added by the author, at that time one of the Scottish judges.


JOHN Duke of Argyll and Greenwich, born 1680, died 1743.

ARGYLL is my name, and you may think it strange
To live at a court, yet never to change;
A' falsehood and flattery I do disdain,
In my secret thoughts nae guile does remain.
My king and my country's foes I have faced,
In city or battle I ne'er was disgraced;
I do every thing for my country's weal,
And feast upon bannocks o' barley meal.

Adieu to the courtie of London town,
For to my ain countrie I will gang down;
At the sight of Kirkaldy ance again,
I'll cock up my bonnet and march amain.
Oh, the muckle deil tak' a' your noise and strife
I'm fully resolved for a country life,

Where a' the braw lasses, wha ken me weel,
Will feed me wi' bannocks o' barley meal.

I will quickly lay down my sword and my gun,
And put my blue bonnet and my plaidie on;
With my silk-tartan hose and leather-heel'd shoon,
And then I will look like a sprightly loon.
And when I'm sae dress'd frae tap to tae,
To meet my dear Maggie I vow I will gae,
Wi' target and hanger hung down to my heel,
And I'll feast upon bannocks o' barley meal.

I'll buy a rich garment to gi'e to my dear,
A ribbon o' green for Maggie to wear;
And mony thing brawer than that, I declare,
Gin she will gang wi' me to Paisley fair.
And when we are married, I'll keep her a cow,
And Maggie will milk when I gae to plow;
We'll live a' the winter on beef and lang kail,
And feast upon bannocks o' barley meal.

Gin Maggie should chance to bring me a son,
He'll fight for his king as his daddy has done;
He'll hie him to Flanders some breeding to learn,
And then hame to Scotland and get him a farm.
And there we will live by our industry,
And wha'll be sae happy as Maggie and me?
We'll a' grow as fat as a Norway seal,
Wi' our feasting on bannocks o' barley meal.

Then fare ye weel, citizens, noisy men,
Wha jolt in your coaches to Drury-lane ;
Ye bucks o' Bear-garden, I bid you adieu,
For drinking and swearing, I leave it to you.
I'm fairly resolved for a country life,

And nae langer will live in hurry and strife;

I'll aff to the Highlands as hard's I can reel,

And whang at the bannocks o' barley meal.

This song is generally attributed to the celebrated Duke of Argyll, but the statement does not appear to rest on sufficient authority. There is no doubt, however, that it was written of, if not by him.


ALLAN RAMSAY. Air-"Fie, gar rub her ower wi' strae."


ye meet a bonnie lassie,

Gi'e her a kiss and let her gae ;

But if ye meet a dirty hizzie,

Fie, gar rub her ower wi' strae.
Be sure ye dinna quit the grip

Of ilka joy when ye are young,
Before auld age your vitals nip,

And lay ye twa-fauld ower a rung.

Sweet youth's a blythe and heartsome time:
Then, lads and lasses, while it's May,
Gae pou the gowan in its prime,

Before it wither and decay.
Watch the saft minutes o' delight,

When Jenny speaks below her breath,
And kisses, layin' a' the wyte


you if she kep ony skaith.

Haith, ye're ill-bred, she'll smilin' say,
Ye'll worry me, ye greedy rook.
Syne frae your arms she'll rin away,
And hide hersel' in some dark neuk.
Her lauch will lead ye to the place
Where lies the happiness ye want;
And plainly tell ye to your face,
Nineteen nay-says are hauf a grant.

Now to her heavin' bosom cling,
And sweitly tuilyie for a kiss;
Frae her fair finger whup a ring,
As taiken o' a future bliss.

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