Bone of your bone, flesh of your flesh
You promis'd to make me."
"Flesh of your flesh, I grant I said,
Bone of your bone, I'd be ;
But now you know you've got no flesh,
And bones are not for me. ""
Poor Cooky now stood all aghast
To find him on the shy,'
And rais'd her apron-tail to wipe
The dripping from her eye.
She sobb'd "Oh, perjured Peter Black,
The basest man I know,
You're Black by name, you're black at heart,
Since you can use me so."
Yet, still to please her Peter's taste
Gave her poor heart relief;
So Mary went and hung herself,
And thus became hung beef.
That grief had cut her up, 'twas plain
To every one in town,
But Peter when he heard the tale,
He ran and cut her down.
Fast, fast his briny tears now flow'd,
Yet Mary's sands ran fleeter ;
Such brine could not preserve the maid,
Though from her own salt Peter.
From this let cookmaids learn to shun
Men who are long and lean;
For when they talk about their love,
'Tis pudding that they mean.
NAE doubt ye'll hae heard how daft Davie M'Ouat
Cam' hame like a deil, wi' an auld horn bouat;
His feet they were cloven, horns stuck through his bonnet,
That fley'd a' the neibours whene'er they look'd on it;
The bairns flew like bees in a fright to their hivie,
For ne'er sic a deil was e'er seen in Bucklyvie.
We had deils o' our ain in plenty to grue at,
Without makin' a new deil o' Davie M'Ouat:
We hae deils at the sornin', and deils at blasphemin';
We hae deils at the cursin', and deils at nicknamin';
But for cloots and for horns, and jaws fit to rive ye,
Sic a deil never cam' to the town o' Bucklyvie.
We hae deils that will lie wi' ony deils breathing,
We're a' deils for drink when we get it for naething;
We tak' a' we can, we gie unco little,
For no ane'll part wi' the reek o' his spittle;
The shool we ne'er use, wi' the rake we will rive you,
So we'll fen without ony mair deils in Bucklyvie.
Though han'less and clootless, wi' nae tail to smite ye
Like leeches when yaup, yet fu' sair can we bite ye;
In our meal-pock nae new deil will ere get his nieve in,
For among us the auld ane could scarce get a livin',
To keep a' that's gude to ourselves we contrive aye,
For that is the creed o' the town o' Bucklyvie.
But deils wi' Court favour we never look blue at,
Then let's drink to our new deil, daft Davie M'Ouat:
And lang may he wag baith his tail and his bairdie,
Without skaith or scorning frae lord or frae lairdie ;
Let him get but the Queen at our fauts to connive aye,
He'll be the best deil for the town o' Bucklyvie.
Now, I've tell't ye ilk failin', I've tell't ye ilk faut :
Stick mair to yer moilin', and less to yer maut;
And aiblins ye'll find it far better and wiser,
Than traikin', and drinkin' wi' Davie the guizar;
And never to wanthrift may ony deil drive ye,
Is the wish o' wee Watty, the bard o' Bucklyvie.
CARRICK.
A MOTHER'S DAUTY.
AIR-" My mither's aye glowrin' ower me."
My mither wad hae me weel married,
My mither wad hae me weel married ;
Na, she tries a' she can
To get me a gudeman,
But as yet, a' her plans hae miscarried.
To balls and to concerts she hies me,
And meikle braw finery buys me;
But the men are sae shy,
They just glow'r and gang by,
There's nane has the sense yet to prize me.
To ilka tea-party she tak's me,
And the theme o' her table-talk mak's me;
But the folks leuk sae queer,“
When she cries "Lizzy! dear,"
That their conduct most grievously racks me.
She haurls me aff to the coast there,
Expecting to mak' me the toast there;
But somehow or ither,
A lass wi' her mither,
Discovers her time is but lost there.
At the kirk, too, I'm made to attend her.
Not wholly heart-homage to render,
But in rich "silken sheen,'
Just to see and be seen,
And to dazzle the gowks wi' my splendour:
But for a' my sweet smirks and my glances,
There's never a wooer advances
To oxter me hame,
Wi' my dainty auld dame;
Alas, now, how kittle my chance is!
I'm sure I'm as good as my cousin,
Wha reckons her joes by the dizen;
That besiege her in thrangs,
Ilka gate that she gangs,
A' swarmin' like bumbees a-bizzin'.
And for beauty, pray what's a' her share o't?
Like me she could thole a hue mair o't?
For its granted by a',
Though she dresses right braw,
She has wonderfu' little to spare o't.
But I trow I maun try a new plan yet,
And depend on myseľ for a man yet;
For my cousin Kate vows,
That some mithers are cowes,
That wad scaur the best chiel that ever ran yet.
And gin I hae the luck to get married;
Gin I hae the luck to get married
Wi' a husband to guide,
(Let Miss Kate then deride),
I'll be proud that my point has been carried.
"HOUT AWA', JOHNNY, LAD!"
HOUT awa', Johnny, lad! what maks ye flatter me?
Why wi' your praises sae meikle bespatter me?
Why sae incessantly deave and be-clatter me,
Teasing me mair than a body can bide?
Can I believe, when ye "angel" and "goddess" me,
That ye're in earnest to mak me your bride?
Say, can a woman o' sense or yet modesty,
Listen to talk frae the truth sae far wide?
Few are the flatterer's claims to sincerity,
Loud though he boast o' his honour and verity;
Truth frae his lips is a wonderfu' rarity,
Words by his actions are sadly belied!
Woman he deems but a toy to be sported wi',
Dawted or spurn'd at, as caprice may guide;
Blooming a while to be dallied and courted wi',
Then to be flung like auld lumber aside!
True love has seldom the gift o' loquacity,
Lips to express it, aft want the capacity;
Wha, then, can trust in a wooer's veracity,
Whase butter'd words o'er his tongue saftly slide? What are loves tell-tales, that give it sweet utterance, Wherein the maiden may safely confide?
What-but the glances, the sighs and heart-flutterings,
Of the loved youth who takes truth for his guide?
Yet, though I've spoken wi' seeming severity,
Made observations wi' prudish asperity,
I'd be the last ane to geck, or to sneer at ye,
Kenning how little is made by fause pride.
Could we but then understand ane anither, then
Soon wad my bosom the matter decide;
Leaving my worthy auld father and mither, then
Hey, Johnny, lad! I'd become your ain bride.
ALEX. RODger.
COME, Tougall, tell me what you'll thocht
Apout this Bill Reform man,
Tat's breeding sic a muckle steer,
An' like to raise ta storm man;
For noo ta peoples meet in troves,
On both sides o' ta Tweed man,
An' spoket speechums loud an' lang,
An' very pauld inteed, man.
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