See how his straught form, 'midst the storm flecker'd lift, Stalks athwart the bleak muir, thro' the dark wreaths o' drift
While the wowff o' the colley or bleat o' the ram
Are beacons o' light, to guide bauld Braxy Tam.
When April comes in aye sae sleety and chill,
And mony young lammie lies dead on the hill,
Though miss'd by its owner, and left by its dam,
It's gude gusty gear to our bauld Braxy Tam.
Tho' some o' us think he gets mair than eneugh-
That he finds them himsel', whilk he cast in the heugh,
The bauldest amang us maun keep a sough calm—
He's a lang luggit deevil, our bauld Braxy Tam.
He ne'er parts wi' master, nor master wi' him—
When the headsman luiks sulky, the herdsman luiks grim.
Syne they souther a' up wi' a flyte and a dram,
For Tam's like the master, the master like Tam.
Thro' a' our braid muirlands sae stunted an' brown,
There's nane fear'd nor lo'ed like the hellicat loun;
Our fair freckled maidens feel mony love dwaum,
When milking the ewes o' our bauld Braxy Tam;
For the wild roving rogue has the gled in his e'e,
Twa three-neukit e'ebrees, aye louping wi' glee,
Wi' a black bushy beard, and a liquory gam—
O wha wad be kittled by bauld Braxy Tam!
At the lown ingle cheek, in the lang winter night,
Tam's welcomed wi' pleasure aye mingled wi' fright;
Queer sangs, and ghaist stories, a' thro' ither cram,
In the big roomy noddle o' bauld Braxy Tam.
Then the weans cour in neuks frae the fancy-raised ghaist,
And ilk lad faulds his arms round his ain lassie's waist;
The auld folks gae bed, in an ill-natured sham,
But the young gape till midnight round bauld Braxy Tam.
They wad fain hae him married, his courage to cowe,
For he's fickle's the clouds, tho' he's het as the lowe,
He courts a' the lasses without e'er a qualm,
Yet for nane by anither cares bauld Braxy Tam.
But a puir auld sheep-farmer cam' here to the muir,
Wi' a daughter as fair as her faither is puir;
She's pure as the dew-drap, an' sweet as the balm, And she's won the stout heart o' our bauld Braxy Tam. JAMES BALLANTINE.
AIR-"The days o' langsyne."
YE'LL mount your bit naggie an' ride your wa's doun,
'Bout a mile and a half frae the neist borough toun,
There wons an auld blacksmith, wi' Janet his wife,
And a queerer auld cock ye ne'er met i' your life,
As this cronie o' mine, this cronie o' mine;
O! be sure that ye ca' on this cronie o' mine.
Ye'll fin' 'im as I do, a trust-worthy chiel,
Weel temper'd wi' wit frae his head to his heel,
Wi' a saul in his body auld Nick ne'er could clout,
And a spark in his throat, whilk is ill to drown out.
This cronie o' mine, this cronie o' mine,
For a deil o' a drouth has this cronie o' mine.
His smiddie ye'll ken by the twa trough stanes
At the auld door cheeks, an' the black batter'd panes―
By the three iron cleeks whilk he straik in the wa',
To tye up wild yads when heigh customers ca'.
Oh this cronie o' mine, this cronie o' mine,
Sure the hail countrie kens him, this cronie o' mine.
Up agen the auld gable 'tis like you may view,
A tramless cart, or a couterless plough,
An' auld teethless harrow, a brechem ring rent,
Wi' mae broken gear, whilk are meant to be ment
By this cronie o' mine, this cronie o' mine;
He's a right handy craftsman, this cronie o' mine.
There's an auld broken sign-board looks to the hie road,
Whilk tells ilka rider whar his naig may be shod,
There's twa or three wordies that ye'll hae to spell,
But ye needna find fault for he wrote it himsel';
This cronie o' mine, this cronie o' mine,
He's an aul' farran carl, this cronie o' mine.
ye fin' his auld smiddie, ye'll like, there's nae doubt, To see the inside o't as well as the out;
Then stap ye in bauldly, altho' he be thrang,
Gif the pint-stoup but clatter, ye'll ken him ere lang,
This cronie o' mine, this cronie o' mine,
Baith wit, fun, and fire, has this cronie o' mine.
Twa or three chiels frae the town-end are sure to be there
There's the bauld-headed butcher, wha taks aye the chair, 'Mang the queerest auld fallows ae way and anither, That e'er in this world were clubbit thegither,
A' cronies o' mine, a' cronies o' mine,
They'll a' mak ye welcome, these cronies o' mine.
There's Dominie Davie, sae glib o' the mou;
But it's like ye will fin' the auld carl blin' fou;
Wi' the wee barber bodie, an' his wig fu' o' news,
Wha wad shave ony chap a' the week for a booze ;
A' cronies o' mine, a' cronies o' mine,
They'll a' mak ye welcome, these cronies o' mine.
There's our auld Toun-Clerk, wha has taen to the pack,
Whilk is naething in bulk to the humph on his back;
His knees are sae bow't, his splay feet sae thrawn,
Troth it's no easy tellin' the road whilk they're gaun,
Tho' a cronie o' mine, a bauld cronie o' mine,
They'll a' mak ye welcome, these cronies o' mine.
There's Robin the ploughman, wha's cramm'd fu' o' fun, Wee gamekeeper Davie, wi' bag, dog, and gun,
And the miller, wha blythly the pipes can play on,
So your sure to fa' in wi' the "Miller o' Drone,"
A' cronies o' mine, a' cronies o' mine,
They'll a' mak ye welcome, these cronies o' mine.
Then wi' thumpin' o' hammers, and tinklin' o' tangs,
Wi' auld fashion'd stories wrought into queer sangs,
Wi' this soun', and that, ye'll ablins be deaved-
And tak' care o' your breeks that they dinna get sieved
Wi' this cronie o' mine, this cronie o' mine,
For an arm o' might has this cronie o' mine.
Then the Vulcan his greybeard is aye sure to draw,
Frae a black sooty hole whilk ye'll see i' the wa',
And lang or it's empty, frien', I meikle doubt,
Gif the tae chap kens weel what the tither's about,
Wi' this cronie o' mine, this cronie o' mine-
O! be sure that ye ca' on this cronie o' mine.
Come now my gude frien' gie's a shake o' your haun',
The night's wearin' thro', and ye maun be gaun,
The callan will bring down your naig in a blink,
But before that ye mount again let us drink
This cronie o' mine, this cronie o' mine,
Here's lang life and pith to this cronie o' mine.
ALEXANDER MACLAGGAN.
FROM THE PRIVATE LIFE OF LANG KATE DALRYMPLE, A CELEBRATED BALLAD SINGER.
TUNE-" Whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad."
O KATIE'S worth gowpens o' gowd to me,
O Katie's worth gowpens o' gowd to me,
Gang favour, gang fortune, I carena a flee,
My Katie's worth gowpens o' gowd to me.
She's nippit, decrepit-she's crabbit and wee,
Looks twa ways at ance wi' a grey greedy glee,
But she turns round on me wi' the tail of her e'e,
An' ilk glance has the glamour o' sunshine to me.
O Katie's worth, etc.
I'm couring and cauldrife, I'm lang and I'm lean,
Hae a leg like a lath, an' an arm like a preen,
Hae a face like a knife, an' a head like a bean,
Yet I'm comely and dear in my kind Katie's e'en.
O Katie's worth, etc.
We live man and wife, by nae priest ever tied,
We are bound by love's fetters, nae bondage beside;
We were made, Kate an' me, to be ilk ither's pride,
Nane else covets me, nor yet fancies my bride.
O Katie's worth, etc.
O why should a blackcoat tie me to my joe,
Sic bands may bring weal, but they sometimes bring woe; Gin ye're no match'd aboon, ye'll ne'er souther below, Far better shake hands on't, syne bundle and go.
I ance was a wabster, and sair did bewail
That bonny wee Katie should sup water kail,
She windit my pirns, I was fond, she was frail,
So to fend for our weanies, I took to the trail.
O Katie's worth, etc.
Syne I learnt a bit sang that spak kindly o' Kate,
Her name had a music that rang in my pate,
An' I sang't wi' sic birr thro' the streets air and late,
That a' body bought it wha cam' in my gate.
When weans cry lang Katie, I e'en let them cry,
When fou fools wad fash me, I jouk an' gae bye,
When lasses come flirtin, I coax them fu' sly,
Sae there's nane comes my way, but my ballant they buy.
O Katie's worth, etc.
|