DAUGHTER.

Haud your tongue, mother, and let that abee;
For his eild and my eild can never agree:
They'll never agree, and that will be seen;
For he is fourscore, and I'm but fifteen.

MOTHER.

Haud your tongue, dochter, and lay by your pride,
For he is the bridegroom, and ye'se be the bride;
He shall lie by your side, and kiss you too;
Auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun lo’e.

DAUGHTER.

Auld Rob Morris, I ken him fu' weel,
His back sticks out like ony peat-creel;
He's out-shinn'd, in-kneed, and ringle-eyed too;
Auld Rob Morris is the man I'll ne'er lo'e.

MOTHER.

Though auld Rob Morris be an elderly man,
Yet his auld brass will buy you a new pan;
Then, dochter, ye should na be sae ill to shoe,
For auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun lo'e.

DAUGHTER.

But auld Rob Morris I never will hae,

His back is so stiff, and his beard is grown grey;
I had rather die than live wi' him a year;

Sae mair o' Rob Morris I never will hear.*

HEY FOR A LASS WI' A TOCHER!

BURNS.

TUNE-Ballinamona and Ora.

Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms,
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms;
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms,
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms!

*From the Tea-Table Miscellany (1724,) where it is printed with the signature Q.

Then, hey for a lass wi' a tocher,
Then, hey for a lass wi' a tocher,
Then, hey for a lass wi' a tocher!

The nice yellow guineas for me!

Your beauty's a flower in the morning that blows,
And withers the faster, the faster it grows;

But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green knowes,
Ilk spring they're new-deckit wi' bonnie white ewes.

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has bless'd, The brightest o' beauty may cloy when possess'd; But the sweet yellow darlings, wi' Geordie imprest, The langer ye hae them, the mair they're carest.

AE FOND KISS.

BURNS.

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae farewell, alas, for ever!

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
War in sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
Who shall say that fortune grieves him,
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.

I'll ne'er blame thy partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy;
But to see her, was to love her;
Love but her, and love for ever.
Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly;
Never met-or never parted,

We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

Fare thee well, thou first and fairest!
Fare thee well, thou best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!

B

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae farewell, alas, for ever!

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
War in sighs and groans I'll wage thee.

STREPHON AND LYDIA.

WILLIAM WALLACE, ESQ.

ALL lovely, on the sultry beach,
Expiring Strephon lay;

No hand the cordial draught to reach,
Nor cheer the gloomy way.
Ill-fated youth! no parent nigh
To catch thy fleeting breath,
No bride to fix thy swimming eye,
Or smooth the face of death.

Far distant from the mournful scene,
Thy parents sit at ease;
Thy Lydia rifles all the plain,

And all the spring to please.
Ill-fated youth by fault of friend,
Not force of foe, depress'd,
Thou fall'st, alas! thyself, thy kind,
Thy country, unredress'd.*

TUNE-Polwarth on the Green.

AT Polwarth, on the Green,

If you'll meet me the morn,

This Song was written by William Wallace, Esq. of Cairnhill, in Ayrshire, upon the fate of an unfortunate couple who figured in fashionable society at Edinburgh during the earlier half of the last century. Strephon was a gentleman commonly known by the name of Beau Gibson, and Lydia was a lady celebrated in the poems of Mr Hamilton of Bangour, under the title of Gentle Jean. Having met frequently at public places, they formed a reciprocal attachment, which their friends thought dangerous, as their resources were by no means adequate to their tastes and habits of life. To elude the bad consequences of such a connexion, Strephon was sent abroad with a commission, and perished in Admiral Vernon's expedition to Carthagena.

Polwarth is a small primitive-looking parish-village in the centre of Berwickshire, with a green, in the centre of which three thorns grow within a little enclosure. These trees are the successors of one aged thorn, which,

Where lads and lasses do convene
To dance around the thorn;
A kindly welcome you shall meet
Frae her, wha likes to view
A lover and a lad complete,
The lad and lover you.

Let dorty dames say Na,

As lang as e'er they please,
Seem caulder than the snaw,
While inwardly they bleeze;
But I will frankly shaw my mind,
And yield my heart to thee-
Be ever to the captive kind,
That langs na to be free.

At Polwarth, on the Green,
Amang the new-mawn hay,
With sangs and dancing keen
We'll pass the live-lang day.
At nicht, if beds be ower thrang laid,
And thou be twined of thine,
Thou shalt be welcome, my dear lad,
To take a part of mine.

AWA, WHIGS, AWA!
[JACOBITE SONG.]

TUNE-Awa, Whigs, awa!

OUR thistles flourish'd fresh and fair,
And bonny bloom'd our roses,
But Whigs came, like a frost in June,
And wither'd a' our posies.

Awa, Whigs, awa!

Awa, Whigs, awa!

Ye're but a pack o' traitor loons;
Ye'll ne'er do good at a'.

after keeping its place there for centuries, was blown down some years ago It was formerly the custom of the villagers, who are a simple race, and were formerly vassals to the Earl of Marchmont, whose seat is in the neigh bourhood, to dance round this venerable tree at weddings; which they are said to have done in consequence of a romantic incident in the history of the noble family just mentioned.

The song first appeared in the Tea-Table Miscellany, 1724.

Our sad decay in church and state
Surpasses my descriving;

The Whigs came o'er us for a curse,
And we have done wi' thriving.

A foreign Whiggish loon bought seeds,
In Scottish yird to cover;
But we'll pu' a' his dibbled leeks,
And pack him to Hanover.

Our ancient crown's fa'n i' the dust,
Deil blind them wi' the stour o't!
And write their names in his black beuk,
Wha ga'e the Whigs the power o't!

Grim Vengeance lang has ta'en a nap,
But we may see him wauken :
Gude help the day, when royal heads
Are hunted like a maukin!

The deil he heard the stour o❜ tongues,
And ramping came anang us;
But he pitied us, sae cursed wi' Whigs,-
He turn'd and wadna wrang us.

Sae grim he sat amang the reek,
Thrang bundling brimstone matches;
And croon'd, 'mang the beuk-taking Whigs,
Scraps of auld Calvin's catches.

Awa, Whigs, awa!

Awa, Whigs, awa!

Ye'll rin me out o' wun spunks,

And ne'er do good at a'.

This song is partly of ancient and partly of modern composition. "There is a tradition," says Mr Hogg, in the Notes to his Jacobite Relics, "that at the battle of Bothwell-bridge, the piper to Clavers's own troop of horse stood on the brink of the Clyde, playing the air of this song with great glee; but, being struck by a bullet, either by chance, or in conse quence of an aim taken, as is generally reported, he rolled down the bank in the agonies of death; and always, as he rolled over the bag, so intent was he on this old party tune, that, with determined firmness of fingering, he made the pipes to yell out two or three notes more of it, till at last he plunged into the river, and was carried peaceably down the stream, among a great number of floating Whigs."