And when the wee drap's in her e'e,
To 'fend her frae mishanter,
Her toast triumphant still shall be
Here's Rhymin' Rab the Ranter.
FRIENDS AROUND THE TABLE SET.
AIR-" Scots wha hae wi Wallace bled."
FRIENDS around the table set,
Blythe am I to see you met;
See that your ills ye a' forget,
And sing your sang wi' glee.
Nae doubt but ye have a' some grief,
For ae night wont ye tak' relief,
For ae short night your sails unreef,
And take the tide sae free.
Wha would sit in sullen gloom,
For sic a ane we hae nae room,
Wi' gude peat-reek your brain perfume,
And let us merry be.
Wha never grumbles, stan' or fa',
However fortune rows the ba',
But aye weel pleased his cork can draw,
That's the man for me.
Then tak' your tumbler while its warm,
A wee drap drink can do nae harm,
It cheers the heart, and nerves the arm-
At least it's so wi' me.
Man's life is but a wee bit span,
And is it no the wisest plan,
To be as happy as we can,
And aye contented be?
O WHO are so hearty, so happy and free,
Or who for the proud care so little as we?
No tyrants control us, no slaves we command,
Like free passage-birds we traverse sea and land;
And still to the comfort of all we attend,
By singing out "caldrons or kettles to mend."
Each climate-each soil, is to us still the same,
No fix'd local spot for our country we claim;
Yon lordly domain, with its castles and towers,
We care not a pin for-the world it is ours;
Superiors we know not-on none we depend,
While our business is caldrons or kettles to mend.
The law says we're vagrants-the law tells a lie,
The green earth's our dwelling, our roof the blue sky,
Then tho', through the earth, for employment we roam,
How can we be vagrants, who ne'er are from home?
Our neighbours are mankind, whom oft we befriend,
While trudging about, pots or kettles to mend.
No rents, tithes, nor taxes, we're called on to pay,
We take up our lodgings wherever we may,
If people are kind, we show kindness to them,
If people are churlish, why we are the same;
But those who are friendly fare best in the end,
While their pots, bellows, caldrons, or kettles we mend.
Not even the parson, the squire, nor my lord,
A daintier supper than we can afford,
For nature profusely each blessing doth grant,
Then why should her children be ever in want?—
Let them share with each other whate'er she may send,
Like us while we've caldrons or kettles to mend.
Then fill to the stranger a cup of the best,
And when he is wearied conduct him to rest,
For the poor lonely wanderer, homeless and bare,
Should ever the wanderers' sympathy share ;
Now we've one consolation-whate'er be our end,
While the world remains wicked-we daily do mend.
ALEX. RODger.
THERE's a green velvet hollow, amang Moffat hills,
Ca'd the Deevil's Beef Pot, where in three little rills
The Tweed, Clyde, an' Annan, sweet babbling arise
Amang bald mountain-tops, that brave cauld gowlin skies;
There nature-wild nature-reigns glorious an' great,
An' there by the Annan dwells bonnie Cow Kate.
Cow Kate was brought up by a rich Border Laird,
Wha'd mony braid acres o' Annan's best sward,
Nae workin', nor daffin', her mettle could tire,
For the lassie wrought hard in the fields an' the byre,
An' simmer an' winter, an' early an' late,
Aye up to the oxters was bonnie Cow Kate.
She grew like a tree, and she bloom'd like a flower,
Wi' her growth there cam' grace, wi' her beauty cam' power,
An' she tripped up the hill, an' she strade down the glen,
Envied by the lasses, adored by the men ;
Yet the farmers were shy, an' the herdsmen were blate,
An' nane cam' a-wooing to bonnie Cow Kate.
There's changes in a' thing, e'en fortune will change,
An' faces look fond, that were wont to look strange,
An' hunders o' wooers baith stalwart an' braw,
Cam' round her when death took the auld laird awa',
An' the clatter gaed round he had left his estate
To his ae strappin' daughter, our bonnie Cow Kate.
Kate kilted her high, an' she stood in the byre,
Sent her wooers to Annan to drown out their fire,
Ca'd her sheep to the tryst, an' her kye to the fair,
Ne'er ae better drover or herdsman was there,
An' mony a jockie was fain to retreat,
Wi' his wit for his winning, frae bonnie Cow Kate.
The shyest are catch'd, when they're catch'd wi' a start,
The head may be cool, but waes me for the heart,
Even Katie fand out, 'mid a mirk wreath o' snaw
That a herdsman had stoun a' her heart's peace awa',
Wrapt warm in his bosom, he bare hame elate,
An' had for his valour our bonnie Cow Kate.
Music by Mr. Turnbull, Glasgow.
HURRAH for the Thistle !-the brave Scottish Thistle, The evergreen Thistle of Scotland for me;
A fig for the flowers, in your lady-built bowers; The strong bearded-weel guarded, Thistle for me.
"Tis the flower the proud eagle greets in its flight, When he shadows the stars with the wings of his might; 'Tis the flower that laughs at the storm as it blows, For the greater the tempest, the greener it grows. Hurrah for the Thistle.
Round the love-lighted hames o' our ain native land,
On the bonneted brow-on the hilt of the brand-
On the face of the shield, 'mid the shouts of the free,
May the Thistle be seen, whare the Thistle should be.
Hurrah for the Thistle.
Hale hearts we hae yet to bleed in its cause,
Bold harps we hae yet to sound its applause,
How then can it fade, when sic chiels an' sic cheer,
And sae mony braw sprouts o' the Thistle are here.
Then hurrah for the Thistle !-the brave Scottish Thistle,
The evergreen Thistle of Scotland for me;
A fig for the flowers, in your lady-built bowers,
The strong bearded—weel guarded, Thistle for me. ALEX. MACLAGGAN.
WHA DAUR MEDDLE WI' ME?
ROUGH, sturdy, beardy, fire-crown'd king,
Thou jaggy, kittly, gleg wee thing,
Wha dares to brave the piercing sting
O' Scotia's thistle ?
Soon scamper aff, hap stap an' fling,
Wi' couring fustle.
'Midst scenes o' weir, in days o' yore,
When the grund swat wi' life's red gore,
And Scotia's land frae shore to shore
Groan'd sair wi' waes,
Thy form dim seen, 'midst battle's roar,
Aft scared her faes.
When Wallace, sturdy patriot wight,
His trusty broad sword glancing bright,
Gar'd Southron reivers scour like fright
Frae Scotland's braes,
Thou snelly shot thy horns o' might,
An' brogged their taes.
When Bruce at Bannockburn's red field
Made Edward's doughty army yield,
|