Ye hae fine goin's-on in the north, John Frost,
Wi' your houses o' ice, and so forth, John Frost ;
Tho' their kirn's on the fire, they may kirn till they tire,
But their butter-pray what is it worth, John Frost ?
Now your breath will be greatly improven John Frost,
By a whilock in some baker's oven, John Frost;
Wi' het scones for a lunch, and a horn o' rum punch,
Or wi' gude whisky toddy a' stovin', John Frost.
Malham Miller
I LO'ED YE WHEN LIFE'S EARLY DEW.
I LO'ED ye when life's early dew
A' fresh upon your bosom lay;
I preed your wee bit fragrant mou',
An' vow'd to lo'e ye in decay.
Ye now sit in the auld aik chair;
The rose hath faded frae your cheek;
Wi' siller tints time dyes your hair-
Your voice now quivers whan ye speak.
Yet joy it is for me to hae
Your wintry beauty in my arms;
The faithfu' heart kens nae decay-
It's simmer there in a' its charms.
An' kindly is your smile to me,
Altho' nae dimple round it plays;
Your voice is aye a melody,
That breathes to me o' ither days.
Fill hie the cup, my gude auld May,
In ruddy wine I'll pledge ye yet;
While mem'ry lingers o'er the day,
The happy day when first we met.
An' this the pledge 'tween you an' me,
Whan time comes hirplin wreath'd in snaw,
Like leaves frae aff an aged tree,
May we to earth thegither fa'.
I WANDER'D by the burn side,
Lang, lang syne;
When I was Willie's promis'd bride
And Willie's heart was mine.
I wander'd by the burn side,
And little did I think,
That e'er I should gang mournin'
Sae sadly by its brink.
We wander'd by the burn side,
Late, late at e'en,
And mony were the vows breath'd
Its flowery banks atween :-
We wander'd late, we wander'd aft,
It ne'er seem'd late nor lang,
Sae mony were the kind things
That Willie said and sang.
But, waes me for the burn side,
Its flowers sae sweet, sae fair;
And waes me for the lasting love,
That Willie promis'd there :
The flowers forsook the burn side,
But ah! they didna part
Sae cauldly frae its bonny banks,
As truth frae Willie's heart.
Now I gang by the burn side,
My sad, my leefu' lane,
And Willie on its flowery banks
Maun never look again.
For ither scenes, and ither charms,
Hae glamour'd Willie's een,
He thinks nae on the burn side,
He thinks na on his Jean.
Oh! blessin's on the burn side!
It's a' the bless I hae
To wander lonely by its brink,
The lee lang night and day-
But waes me for its bonny flowers
Their sweets I daurna see,
For Willie's love, and Willie's wrang, Wi' tears blind aye my e'e!
LET votaries o' Bacchus o' wine make their boast,
And drink till it mak's them as dead's a bed-post,
A drap o' maut broe I wad far rather pree,
And a rosy-faced landlord's the Bacchus for me.
Then I'll toddle butt, and I'll toddle ben,
And let them drink at wine wha nae better do ken.
Your wine it may do for the bodies far south,
But a Scotchman likes something that bites i' the mouth,
And whisky's the thing that can do't to a Tee,
Then Scotsmen and whisky will ever agree;
For wi' toddlin' butt, an' wi' toddlin' ben,
Sae lang we've been nurst on't we hardly can spean.
It's now thretty years since I first took the drap,
To moisten my carcase, and keep it in sap,
An' tho' what I've drunk might hae slockened the sun,
I fin' I'm as dry as when first I begun ;
For wi' toddlin' butt, an wi' toddlin' ben,
I'm nae sooner slockened than drouthy again.
Your douse folk aft ca' me a tipplin' auld sot,
A worm to a still,-a sand bed,--and what not;
They cry that my hand wad ne'er bide frae my mouth,
But, oddsake! they never consider my drouth;
Yet I'll toddle butt an' I'll toddle ben,
An' laugh at their nonsense-wha nae better ken.
Some hard grippin' mortals wha deem themsel's wise,
A glass o' good whisky affect to despise,
Poor scurvy-souled wretches-they're no very blate,
Besides, let me tell them, they're foes to the State;
For wi' toddlin' butt, an' wi' toddlin' ben,
Gin folk wadna drink, how could Government fen'?
Yet wae on the tax that mak's whisky sae dear,
An' wae on the gauger sae strict and severe :
Had I but my will o't, I'd soon let you see,
That whisky, like water, to a' should be free;
For I'd toddle butt, an' I'd toddle ben,
An' I'd mak' it to rin like the burn after rain.
What signifies New'rday?—a mock at the best,
That tempts but poor bodies, and leaves them unblest,
For a ance-a-year fuddle I'd scarce gie a strae,
Unless that ilk year were as short as a day;
Then I'd toddle butt, an' I'd toddle ben,
Wi' the hearty het pint, an' the canty black hen.
I ne'er was inclined to lay by ony cash,
Weel kennin' it only wad breed me mair fash;
But aye when I had it, I let it gang free,
An' wad toss for a gill wi' my hindmost bawbee;
For wi' toddlin' butt, an' wi' toddlin' ben,
I ne'er kent the use o't, but only to spen'.
Had siller been made in the kist to lock by,
It ne'er wad been round, but as square as a die;
Whereas, by its shape, ilka body may see,
It aye was designed it should circulate free;
Then we'll toddle butt, an' we'll toddle ben,
An' aye whan we get it, we'll part wi't again.
I ance was persuaded to "put in the pin,"
But foul fa' the bit o't ava wad bide in,
For whisky's a thing so bewitchingly stout,
The first time I smelt it, the pin it lap out
Then I toddled butt, an' I toddled ben,
And I vowed I wad ne'er be advised sae again.
O leeze me on whisky! it gies us new life,
It mak's us aye cadgy to cuddle the wife;
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