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But I was baking when he came,
When he came, when he came,
I took him in, and gied him a scone,
To thowe his frozen mou'.

I set him in aside the bink,

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gae him bread, and ale to drink, But ne'er a blythe styme wad he blink, Until his wame was fou.

Gae, get ye gone, ye cauldrife wooer,
Ye sour-looking, cauldrife wooer,
I straightway show'd him to the door,
Saying, come nae mair to woo.

There lay a deuk-dub before the door,
Before the door, before the door;
There lay a deuk-dub before the door,
And there fell he, I trow!

Out came the guidman, and high he shouted,
Out came the guidwife, and laigh she louted,
And a' the toun-neebours were gather'd about it,
But there lay he, I trow!

Then out came I, and sneer'd and smil'd,
Ye came to woo, but ye're a' beguil❜d,
Ye've fa'en i' the dirt, and ye're a befyl❜d.

We'll hae nae mair of you.

And wow! but he was a braw young

A brisk young lad, and a braw

lad,

Came seeking me to woo.

And wow! but he was a braw

young

lad,

young

lad,

[First published by Herd in 1769.]

ANDRO AND HIS CUTTY GUN.

Blythe, blythe, blythe was she,
Blythe was she but and ben;
Weel she loo'd a Hawick gill,

And leugh to see a tappit hen.
She took me in, she set me down,
And hecht to keep me lawin'-free;
But, cunning carline that she was,
She gart me birle my bawbie.

We loo'd the liquor well eneugh;

But waes my heart my cash was done,
Before that I had quench'd my drouth,
And laith I was to pawn my shoon.
When we had three times toom'd our stoup,
And the neist chappin new begun,
In startit, to heeze up our hope,
Young Andro, wi' his cutty gun.

The carline brocht her kebbuck ben,
Wi' girdle-cakes weel toasted brown,
Weel does the canny kimmer ken

They gar the scuds gae glibber down.
We ca'd the bicker aft about;

Till dawnin' we ne'er jee'd our bun,
And ay
the cleanest drinker out,
Was Andro, wi' his cutty gun

He did like ony mavis sing,
And, as I in his oxter sat,
He ca'd me ay his bonny thing,
And mony a sappy kiss I gat.

["

I hae been east, I hae been west,
I hae been far ayont the sun;
But the blythest lad that e'er I saw,
Was Andro, wi' his cutty gun.

[“ Andro and his cutty gun', is the work of a master."-BURNS. This blythesome, lively and admirable song was first published by

Allan Ramsay.]

MY WIFE HAS TA'EN THE GEE.

A friend of mine came here yestreen,
And he wad hae me down

To drink a bottle o' ale wi' him

In the niest burrows town.
But, O! indeed it was, Sir,
Sae far the waur for me;
For, lang or e'er that I came 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 came,
We a' were roarin' fou.

My wife sits at the fire side,

And the tear blinds aye her e'e,

The ne'er a bed wad she gae 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,

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My dear, quoth 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.

[First published by Herd in 1769.]

VOL. II.

CLOUT THE CAULDRON.

Hae you any pots or pans,
Or any broken chandlers?
I am a tinker to my trade,

And newly come frae Flanders,
As scant of siller as of grace,
Disbanded, we've a bad run;
Gar tell the lady of the place,

I'm come to clout her cauldron.

Madam, if you have wark for me,

I'll do't to your contentment,
And dinna care a single flie
For any man's resentment.

E

For, lady fair, though I appear
To ev'ry ane a tinker,
Yet to yoursel I'm bauld to tell,
I am a gentle jinker.

Love, Jupiter into a swan,
Turn'd for his lovely Leda;
He like a bull o'er meadows ran,
To carry off Europa.

Then may not I, as well as he,

To cheat your Argus blinker,
And win your love, like mighty Jove,
Thus hide me in a tinker?

Sir, ye appear a cunning man,
But this fine plot you'll fail in,
For there is neither pot nor pan
Of mine you'll drive a nail in.
Then bind your budget on your back,
And nails up in your apron,

For I've a tinker under tack

That's used to clout my cauldron.

[A Galloway tradition ascribes to a Gordon of the House of Kenmure the honour of composing the original words of this song, which are supposed to have assisted Allan Ramsay in modelling the present lyric.-ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.]

THE DRUCKEN WIFE OF GALLOWAY.

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Down in yon valley' a couple did tarry ;

The wife she drank naething but sack and canary: The gudeman complain'd to her friends right sairly, O! gin my wife wad drink hoolie and fairly!

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