Lays his head on his harp, and breathes out his last sigh,

Without e'er a friend within hearing, O!

But wha ever heard of a minstrel so crost,—

Lay his head on a Haggis to gie up the ghost ?—
O never, since time took his scythe frae the post,
An' truntled awa to the shearing, O!

"Now I'll settle your plea in the crack o' a whup ;-
Gie the Haggis the lead, be't to dine or to sup :—
Till the bags are weel filled, there can nae drone get up,—
Is a saying I learned from my mither, O!
When the feasting is ower, let the harp loudly twang,
An' soothe ilka lug wi' the charms o' her sang,—
An' the wish of my heart is, wherever ye gang,
Gude grant ye may aye be thegither, O!"

CARRICK.

SWEET BET OF ABERDEEN.

AIR-" The Rose of Allandale."

How brightly beams the bonnie moon,
Frae out the azure sky;

While ilka little star aboon

Seems sparkling bright wi' joy.

How calm the eve! how blest the hour!
How soft the sylvan scene!

How fit to meet thee-lovely flower!
Sweet Bet of Aberdeen.

Now, let us wander through the broom,
And o'er the flowery lea;
While simmer wafts her rich perfume,
Frae yonder hawthorn tree :
There, on yon mossy bank we'll rest,
Where we've sae aften been,

Clasp'd to each other's throbbing breast,
Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!

How sweet to view that face so meek,-
That dark expressive eye,-

To kiss that lovely blushing cheek,-
Those lips of coral dye!

But O! to hear thy seraph strains,

Thy maiden sighs between,

Makes rapture thrill through all my veins-
Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!

O! what to us is wealth or rank?
Or what is pomp or power?
More dear this velvet mossy bank,-
This blest ecstatic hour!

I'd covet not the Monarch's throne,
Nor diamond-studded Queen,

While blest wi' thee, and thee alone,
Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!

ALEX. RODger.

THE NAILER'S WIFE.

AIR-" Willie Wastle."

THERE lives a Nailer wast the raw,
Wi' brain o' peat, an' skull o' putty;
He has a wife-gude safe us a'!
A randy royt ca'd Barmy Betty!
O sic a scauld is Betty!

Och hey! how bauld is Betty!
Xantippe's sel', wi' snash sae snell,
Was but a lamb compared wi' Betty.

An' O but she's a grousome quean,
Wi' face like ony big bass fiddle,
Twa flaming torches are her een,
Her teeth could snap in bits-
O what a wight is Betty!
O sic a fright is Betty!

—a griddle.

Wi' fiery een, an' furious mien,
The queen o' terrors sure is Betty!

Ye've seen upon a rainy night,

Upon the dark brown clouds refleckit, Clyde Airn Warks' grim an' sullen light— Then, that's her brow when frowns bedeck it, O what a brow has Betty!

O sic a cowe is Betty!

Her vera glow'r turns sweet to sour,
Sae baleful is the power o' Betty.

It had been good for you and me,
Had mither Eve been sic a beauty,
She soon would garr'd auld Saunders flee
Back to his dungeon dark and sooty.
O what a grin has Betty!

Oh how like Sin is Betty!

The auld "foul thief" wad seek relief,
In his maist darksome den frae Betty.

Whene'er you see a furious storm,

Uprooting trees, an' lums down smashin',
Ye then may some idea form,

Of what she's like when in a passion.
O what a barmy Betty!

O sic a stormy Betty!

The wind an' rain may lash the plain,
But a' in vain they strive wi' Betty.

For then the weans she cuffs and kicks,
In fau't or no, it mak's nae matter;
While trenchers, bowls, and candlesticks,
Flee through the house wi' hailstane blatter.
O what a hag is Betty!

O sic a plague is Betty!

Dog, cat, an' mouse, a' flee the house.
A-wondering what the deuce means Betty.

Her tongue-but to describe its power,
Surpasses far baith speech and writing;

The Carron blast could never roar

Like her, when she begins a flyting.

O what a tongue has Betty!
O siccan lungs has Betty!

The blast may tire, the flame expire,

But nought can tire the tongue o' Betty.

ALEX. RODger.

"O MITHER, ONY BODY."

AIR-"Sir Alex. M'Donald's Reel.

"O MITHER, ony body!

Ony body! ony body!

O mither, ony body!

But a creeshy weaver."

"A weaver's just as good as nane,
A creature worn to skin and bane,
I'd rather lie through life my lane,
Than cuddle wi' a weaver."

The lassie thocht to catch a laird,
But fient a ane about her cared;
For nane his love had e'er declared,
Excepting, whiles—a weaver.

Yet ne'er a weaver wad she tak',
But a' that cam', she sent them back,
An' bann'd them for a useless pack,
To come nae mair and deave her.

Their sowen crocks-their trantlum gear-
Their trash o' pirns she couldna bear;
An' aye the ither jibe and jeer,

She cuist at ilka weaver.

But sair she rued her pridefu' scorn,
E'er thretty nicks had mark'd her horn,
For down she hurkled a' forlorn,

In solitude to grieve her.

She gaed to kirk, she gaed to fair,
She spread her lure, she set her snare,
But ne'er a nibble gat she there,

Frae leading apes, to save her.

At last, unto the barn she gaed,
An' ilka e'ening duly pray'd,

That some ane might come to her aid,
An' frae her wants relieve her.

An' thus the lassie's prayer ran—
Oh send thy servant some bit man,
Before her cheeks grow bleach'd an' wan,
An' a' her beauties leave her."

A weaver lad wha ance had woo'd,
But cam' nae speed, do a' he could,
Now thocht her pride might be subdued,
An' that he yet might have her.

He watched when to the barn she gaed,
An' while her bit request she made,

In solemn tones he slowly said—

66

Lass, will ye tak' a weaver?"

"Thy will be done-I'm now content,
Just ony body ere I want,

I'll e'en be thankfu' gin Thou grant,
That I may get a weaver."

The weaver, he cam' yont neist day,

An' sought her hand-she ne'er said, "Nay."
But thocht it time to mak' her hay,
So jumpit at the weaver.

Now, ye whase beauty's on the wane,
Just try the barn, at e'en, your lane,
Sma' fish are better far than nane,
Ye'll maybe catch a weaver.

VOL. I.

ALEX. RODger.

K