OH! ken ye his reverence, Minister Tam?
Oh ! ken ye his reverence, Minister Tam?
Wi' a head like a hog, an' a look like a ram—
An' these are the marks o' Minister Tam.
Oh! Minister Tam's mistaen his trade--
The parish beadle he should hae been made;
The kintra clash i' the manse to tell,
To summon the Session, an' ring the bell!
He's gotten a kirk, but he's preach'd it toom;
He ca's, examines, but nane will come ;
His elder bodies they daurna speak-
He's makin' an' breakin' them ilka week!
There's aye some will-o'-the-wisp in his pow,
That keeps the country side in a lowe;
There'll never be peace, an' that ye'll hear tell
Till he hang as heigh as the parish bell.
BRIGHTLY IS THE STREAMLET FLOWING.
AIR-"Merrily every bosom boundeth."
BRIGHTLY is the streamlet flowing,
Brightly oh! brightly oh!
To its mother ocean going
Brightly oh! brightly oh!
O'er its current, rapid, dancing,
Stately oaks their arms advancing,
Are the lovely scene enhancing
Brightly oh! brightly oh!
Haste, then, streamlet to the ocean
Sweetly oh! sweetly oh!
Kiss thy mother in devotion
Sweetly oh! sweetly oh!
But no ray comes to illumine
My poor heart in grief consuming,
Tho' the flow'ry banks be blooming
Sweetly oh! sweetly oh!
But what sun illumes the bushes
Radiant oh! radiant oh!
'Tis Matilda's glowing blushes
Radiant oh! radiant oh!
Run then, streamlet, run, and never
From thy mother ocean sever;
Oh! Matilda's mine for ever,
Radiant oh! radiant oh!
TUNE-" The Hills o' Glenorchy."
THE auld cripple beggar cam' jumpin', jumpin',
Hech, how the bodie was stumpin', stumpin',
His wee wooden leggie was thumpin', thumpin',
Saw ye e'er sic a queer auld man?
An' aye he hirchelled, an' hoastit, hoastit,
Aye he stampit his foot an' he boastit,
Ilka woman an' maid he accostit,
Saw ye e'er sic a hirplin crouse auld man?
The auld wives cam' in scores frae the clachan,
The young wives cam' rinnin' a' gigglin' an' laughin',
The bairnies cam' toddlin' a' jinkin' an' daffin',
An' pooket the tails o' the queer auld man.
Out cam' the young widows a' blinkin' fou meekly,
Out cam' the young lasses a' smirkin' fou sweetly,
Out cam' the auld maidens a' bobbin' discreetly,
An' gat a bit smack frae the queer auld man.
Out cam' the big blacksmith a' smeekit an' duddy,
Out cam' the fat butcher a' greezy an' bluidy,
Out cam' the auld cartwright, the wee drunken bodie,
An' swore they wad slaughter the queer auld man.
Out cam' the lang weaver wi' his biggest shuttle, Out cam' the short snab wi' his sharp cutty whittle, Out cam' the young herd wi' a big tatty beetle,
An' swore they wad batter the queer auld man.
The beggar he cuist aff his wee wooden peg,
An' he show'd them a brawny sturdy leg,
I wat but the carle was strappin' an' gleg,
Saw ye e'er sic a brisk auld man ?
He thumpit the blacksmith hame to his wife,
He dumpit the butcher, who ran for his life,
He chased the wee wright wi' the butcher's sharp knife,
Saw ye e'er sic a brave auld man?
He puff'd on the weaver, he ran to his loom,
He shankit the snab hame to cobble his shoon,
He skelpit the herd on his bog-reed to croon,
Saw ye e'er sic a strong auld man ?
The wives o' the town they a' gather'd about him,
An' loudly an' blithely the bairnies did shout him,
They hooted the loons wha had threaten'd to clout him,
Kenn'd ye e'er sic a lucky auld man ?
JAMES BALLANTINE.
COME, A SONG-A GLAD SONG.
COME a song-a glad song, when each heart with delight,
Like fix'd stars are beaming around us to-night,
When our faith is so steady, our friendship so strong,
Oh! who would not join in a soul-stirring song?
Sing on, happy hearts! if your praises should be
Breathed forth for the land of the brave and the free,
Let the proud echoes swell Scotland's mountains among,
They're the altars of freedom! the highlands of song!
Sing on, happy hearts! and if love be the theme,
Then breathe in glad music the bliss of the dream,
For the ladies, God bless them! who seldom are wrong,
Say "love's sweetest breath is a soul-melting song."
Sing on, merry hearts! and if auld mother wit,
Be the prize you would aim at, the mark you would hit,
Go bathe your glad souls in the blood of the vine,
Till your hearts overflow with the lays o' langsyne.
Song-song was the joy of our boyhood's glad time; Song-song still shall cheer the proud home of our prime, And when bent with old age, we go hirpling along, We'll beat time with our crutch to a merry old song.
Then a song-a glad song, when each heart with delight,
Like fix'd stars are beaming around us to-night,
When our faith is so steady, our friendship so strong,
Oh! who would not join in a soul-stirring song?
HEARD ye e'er o' our gudeman,
The gaucy laird o' braid Dunwodie,
The wale o' cocks at cap or can,
Honest, canty Simon Brodie :
Auld farran canty bodie,
Winsome, pranksome, gleesome bodie,
The crack o' a' the kintra side,
Is auld canty Simon Brodie.
Simon he's a strappin' chiel,
For looks wad mell wi' ony bodie,
In height an ell but an' a span,
An' twice as braid is Simon Brodie :
Troth he is a canty bodie,
An auld farran canty bodie,
An' tho' his pow's baith thin and grey,
Ye'd hardly match me Simon Brodie.
Simon Brodie had ane wife,
I wat she was baith proud and bonny,
He took the dishclout frae the bink,
And preen't it till her cockernony!
Wasna she a thrifty bodie,
The braw, braw lady o' Dunwodie,
In claes sae fine to dress and dine,
Wi' sic a laird as Simon Brodie.
An' Simon had a branded cow,
He tint his cow and couldna find her,
He sought her a' the lee lang day,
But the cow cam' hame wi' her tail ahind her.
Yet think na him a doited body,
Think na him a davert body,
He has walth o' warld's gear,
Mak's men respect auld Simon Brodie.
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