For you sae douse, ye sneer at this, Green grow, Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears &c. Green grow, &c. Founded on an old and licentious song with the same chorus. THE OLD MAN'S SONG. REV. JOHN SKINNER. Air-" Dumbarton's drums." Он, why should old age so much wound us O? With my old wife sitting by, And our bairns and our oes all around us O! We began in the world wi' naething O, And we've jogg'd on and toil'd for the ae thing O; We made use of what we had, And our thankful hearts were glad When we got the bit meat and the claething O. We have lived all our lifetime contented O, And we are so to this hour, Yet we never pined nor lamented O. We ne'er thought of schemes to be wealthy O, And what further could we wiss ? To be pleased with ourselves and be healthy O. What though we canna boast of our guineas O, More desirable by far Than a pock full of yellow steenies O. We've seen many a wonder and ferly O, Both in country and in town, Who now live but scrimply and barely O. Then why should people brag of prosperity O? A straiten'd life we see is no rarity O; Indeed, we've been in want, And our living been but scant, Yet we never were reduced to need charity O. In this house we first came thegither O, It will last us a' our time, And I hope we shall never need anither O. JENNY'S BAWBEE. SIR ALEX. BOSWELL, Bart. I MET four chaps yon birks amang, Quo' he, Ilk cream-faced pawky chiel The first, a captain to his trade, Wi' skull ill-lined, but back weel-clad, March'd round the barn and by the shed, Quo' he, "My goddess, nymph, and queen, A lawyer neist, wi' blatherin' gab, Accounts he own'd through a' the town, And tradesmen's tongues nae mair could drown, Wi' Jenny's bawbee. A Norland laird neist trotted up, gown Wi' bawsend nag and siller whup, Cried, “There's my beast, lad, haud the grup, Or tie't till a tree: What's gowd to me? I've walth o' lan'; Drest up just like the knave o' clubs, And jaupit a' was he: He danced up squinting through a glass, She bade the laird gae kame his wig, The soger no to strut sae big, The lawyer no to be a prig; The fool he cried, "Tehee! I kenn'd that I could never fail!" But she prenn'd the dishclout to his tail, And kept her bawbee. This song was contributed by its unfortunate author to Thomson's "Select Melodies of Scotland." Sir Alexander was the son of James Boswell, whose in imitable "Life of Dr. Johnson " has conferred a peculiar immortality upon his name. He was unfortunately killed in 1822, by Mr. James Stuart of Dunearn, in a duel arising out of a literary squabble in the "Sentinel," a Glasgow newspaper, to which Sir Alexander had contributed a "Whig song," supposed to be written by one of the Jameses, certainly not by King James the First or King James the Fifth, but probably by one of the house of Stuart." The song was very scurrilous, and reflected on the honour of Mr. Stuart. In after-life Mr. Stuart became editor of the London "Courier," and an Inspector of Mills and Factories. JENNY'S BAWBIE. Oldest version, upon which the preceding was founded by SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL. AN' a' that e'er my Jenny had, There's your plack an' my plack, We'll put it a' in the pint-stoup, JENNY DANG THE WEAVER. AT Willie's wedding on the green, And braw white Sunday mutches : And Jenny dang, Jenny dang, At ilka country-dance or reel And to her would be gabbing ; Jenny dang the weaver; You've bonnie een; and if you're kind, I'll never seek anither. He humm'd and haw'd; the lass cried, Peugh! And bade the coof no deave her; For Jenny dang the weaver. |