To drive auld Scotland's hardy clans Native glens and blooming heather, To drive auld Scotland's hardy clans Frae their native glens and blooming heather. I'll sell the cot my granny left, Its plenishing an' a' thegither, An' I'll seek her out 'mang foreign wilds, I'll seek her out 'mang foreign wilds, Wha used to meet me amang the heather. CARRICK. OUR JOHN HIELANMAN. I'VE sax eggs in the pan, gudeman, Oh Johnny has a shapely leg, That egg's to our John Hielanman. Ve ken, gudeman, you're failing noo, Ye neither thrash nor haud the plough The folk that work should always eat, For ne'er a job that's incomplete As yet, gudeman, I'm no to blame, CARRICK. THE HERRING-HEAD CLUB. As we journey through life let us live by the way, Some good folks complain of the times being bad, King Fergus the First, who in Scotland did reign, Derry down, etc. One night being merry and full of much glee, For with herrings and drink they were all on the spree— And now I command that ye keep the thing up, And if ye forget it, my ghost shall ye drub, Then drink to King William, and drink to the Queen, THE AULD SCOTTISH BRUGH. AIR-" John Anderson my Joe." IN Scotland stands an ancient brugh, wi' some twalhundred people, A lang and narrow strip o' street, and ae high-shoulder'd steeple ; Ilk grocer i' the borough is a bailie, or has been, But the Provost was perpetual, and drave the hail machine. At twal o'clock, the Provost cam, and stood upo' the street, And waggit to his right-hand man, i' the public house to meet; The Bailie threw his apron by, and o'er their gill they sat, And they managed a' the Toun's affairs in a bit quiet chat. The Deacon, wi' a face half-wash'd, gaed consequential by But the Deacon, as a' body kent, had nae finger i' the pie. The Deacon made the Provost's breeks, and a' his laddies' claes And the Provost, though the best o' friends, was yet the warst o' faes. And oh the Provost was a man o' consequence and worth He managed weel, he strutted weel, yet had nae wit nor birth: He led the Council in a string, and the member, ken't, I trow, That, if he said the word, 'twas done, and there were votes enow. And when the canvassin' cam' round, the member walk'd about, And bughted i' the Provost's arm-they sought the Deacon's out; The bodies threw their nightcaps by, or wi' them cleaned a chair, And the member sat i' the ben house, wi' a condescendin' air. The gudewife stood aside, and beck'd and twirled her apron strings, And wunner'd that the member deign'd to speak to them, puir things! The Parliamentar roar'd, and talked, and syne kiss'd the gudewife And the wife declares the Deacon's vote is now as sure's his life. The Bailie's wife, wi' a braw head, frae her window looks out, And cried, "Preserve 's! he's comin' now-what are ye a' about? Put down the wine, ye lazy jad !—the lassie's surely mad !" And down she sits, to be surprised, upon her cosh bit pad. The Bailie bustles in before-his very lugs are red The gudewife hears upo' the trance a Parliamentar's tread? He enters a' sooawvity, and chucks each chubby laddie, And swears how ane is like to her, anither to its daddy. And now the Provost walks him hame to dinner wi' himsel', And the member tak's his seat atween the leddie and Miss Bell And the leddie cracks o' Dr. John, and syne o' Captain Sandy, Wha, by his Honour's influence, to India got so handy. But, waes my heart! the auncient town has now gane down the hill, And vested rights o' families are stolen by Russell's Bill— And vulgar weaving touns, I trow, like Glasgow and Dundee, Maun steal the honours frae our brughs o' high antiquity? MISTER PETER PATERSON. MISTER Peter Paterson, Mister Peter Paterson, I see you're gayan' fu'. You're a Bailie now, ye ken, Then drink wi' nane but sober men, Nor sit in ony dirty den Wi' ony vulgar crew. For I maun tell it to your face, That it's a sin and a disgrace For you to sit in sic a place, |