And there he spied a powder'd wig
Where nae wig should be.
What's this now, gudewife?
What's this I see?

How cam' this wig here
Without the leave o' me?
A wig! quo' she;
Ay, a wig, quo' he.
Ye auld blind dotard carle,
And blinder mat ye be!
'Tis naething but a clocken-hen
My minnie sent to me.

A clocken-hen! quo' he;
Ay, a clocken-hen, quo' she.

Far hae I ridden,

And muckle hae I seen; But powder on a clocken-hen

Saw I never nane.

Our gudeman cam' hame at e'en,

And hame cam' he;

And there he saw a muckle coat

Where nae coat should be. How cam' this coat here?

How can this be?

How cam' this coat here?

Without the leave o' me?
A coat! quo' she;
Ay, a coat, quo' he.
Ye auld blind dotard carle,

And blinder mat ye be !
It's but a pair o' blankets
My minnie sent to me.
Blankets! quo' he;
Ay, blankets, quo' she.
Far hae I ridden,

And muckle hae I seen;

But buttons upon blankets

Saw I never nane.

Ben gaed our gudeman

And ben gaed he;

And there he spied a sturdy man

Where nae man should be.

How cam' this man here?

How can this be?

How cam' this man here

Without the leave o' me?
A man! quo' she;
Ay, a man, quo' he.

Puir blind body,

And blinder mat ye be!
It's but a new milkin' maid

My mither sent to me.
A maid! quo he;
Ay, a maid, quo' she.

Far hae I ridden,

And muckle hae I seen;

But lang-bearded maidens
Saw I never nane.

This excellent old song has been claimed as English, but its whole character is evidently Scottish. Johnson, the editor of the Musical Museum," recovered the air, which had been lost, from the singing of a barber in Edinburgh, and printed it for the first time in his collection. There is another version with a denouement more suitable to the delicacy of the present age than that commonly sung, and in which the following stanza concludes the story:

Oh, hame cam' our gudeman at e'en,

An' ben ga'ed he;

An' he saw a muckie man

Where nae man should be.
What's this now, gudewife?
Wha's this I see?

An' how cam' this man here
Without the leave o' me?

A man! quo' she;

Ay, a man, quo' he.

Oh, hooly, hooly, our gudeman!
An' dinna anger'd be;

It's just our cousin Mackintosh
Come frae the North Countrie.

Cousin Mackintosh! quo' he:
Ay, Cousin Mackintosh, quo' she.
Oh, ye'll hae us a' hang'd, gudewife,
I've een eneuch to see;

Ye're hidin' rebels in the house

Without the leave o' me.

THE BARRING O' THE DOOR.

From Herd's Collection. The song is sung to an English tune called "An old woman clothed in grey."

IT fell about the Martinmas time,

And a gay time it was than,

When our gude wife got puddings to mak',
And she boiled them in the pan.

The wind sae cauld blew east and north,
It blew into the floor;

Quoth our gudeman to our gudewife,

"My hand is in my hussy'f skap,

Gudeman, as ye may see;

An' it shou'd nae be barred this hundred year,
It's no be barr'd for me."

They made a paction 'tween them twa,
They made it firm and sure,

That whae'er should speak the foremost word
Shou'd get up and bar the door.

Then by there came twa gentlemen

At twelve o'clock at night,

And they could neither see house nor hall,

Nor coal nor candle light.

Now whether is this a rich man's house,

Or whether is it a poor?

But never a word wad ane o' them speak,
For barring o' the door.

And first they ate the white puddings,

And then they ate the black;

Though muckle thought the gudewife to hersel',
Yet ne'er a word she spak'.

66

Gied three skips on the floor:

Gudeman, ye've spoken the foremost word,—
Get up and bar the door."

This song was first printed by David Herd, who wrote it down from a traditionary It is generally sung with the following lines as a chorus:

version.

"Oh, the barring of our door,

Weel, weel, weel;

And the barring of our door, weel."

THE DUSTY MILLER.

From "Johnson's Museum," 1782.

HEY, the dusty miller
And his dusty coat;
He will win a shilling

Ere he spend a groat.

Dusty was the coat,

Dusty was the colour;
Dusty was the kiss

That I gat frae the miller.

Hey, the dusty miller,
And his dusty sack ;
Leeze me on the calling
Fills the dusty peck,-
Fills the dusty peck,

Brings the dusty siller
I wad gi'e my coatie
For the dusty miller.

FAIRLY SHOT OF HER.

From "Johnson's Museum."

OH, gin I were fairly shot o' her,
Fairly, fairly, fairly shot o' her!
Oh, gin I were fairly shot o' her!

If she were dead, I wad dance on the top o' her.

Till we were married I couldna see licht till her;
For a month after a' thing aye gaed richt wi' her;
But these ten years I hae pray'd for a wright to her—
Oh. gin I were fairly shot o' her!

Nane o' her relations or friends could stay wi' her:
The neebours and bairns are a' fain to flee frae her;
And I my ain sel' am forced to gi'e way till her—
Oh, gin I were fairly shot o' her!

She gangs aye sae braw, she's sae muckle pride in her;
There's no a gudewife in the haill country-side like till her;
Wi' dress and wi' drink, the deil wadna bide wi' her—
Oh, gin I were fairly shot o' her!

If the time were but come that to the kirk-gate wi’ her,
And into the yird I'd mak' mysel' quit o' her,

I'd then be as bly the as first when I met wi' her—
Oh, gin I were fairly shot o' her!

This is a modern version of an old song, and is said to have been written by one John Anderson, at that time apprentice to Johnson the engraver, and publisher of the "Museum," where the song first appeared.