CAULD blaws the wind frae north to south,

The drift is drifting sairly;

The sheep are cowrin' i' the heuch;

Oh, sirs, it's winter fairly!
Now up in the mornin's no for me,
Up in the mornin' early;
I'd rather gae supperless to my bed
Than rise in the mornin' early.

Loud roars the blast amang the woods,
And tirls the branches barely;
On hill and house hear how it thuds;
The frost is nipping sairly.

Now up in the mornin's no for me,
Up in the mornin' early;

To sit a' nicht wad better agree
Than rise in the mornin' early.

The sun peeps owre yon southland hills
Like ony timorous carlie,

Just blinks a wee, then sinks again;
And that we find severely.

Now up in the mornin's no for me,
Up in the mornin' early;

When snaw blaws in at the chimley-cheek,
Wha'd rise in the mornin' early?

Nae linties lilt on hedge or bush,—
Poor things, they suffer sairly;
In cauldrife quarters a' the nicht,
A' day they feed but sparely.
Now up in the mornin's no for me,
Up in the mornin' early;

A pennyless purse I wad rather dree
Than rise in the mornin' early.

A cosie house and canty wife

Aye keep a body cheerly;

And pantries stow'd wi' meat and drink,
They answer unco rarely.

But up in the mornin'—na, na, na !
Up in the mornin' early;

The gowans maun glent on bank and brae,
When I rise in the mornin' early.

Every lassie has her laddie,
Ne'er a ane hae I;

Yet a' the lads they smile at me
When comin' through the rye.
Amang the train there is a swain
I dearly lo'e mysel';

But whaur his hame, or what his name,

I dinna care to tell.

Gin a body meet a body
Comin' frae the town,
Gin a body greet a body,
Need a body frown?
Every lassie has her laddie,
Ne'er a ane hae I;

Yet a' the lads they smile at me
When comin' through the rye.
Amang the train there is a swain

I dearly lo'e mysel';

But whaur his hame, or what his name,

I dinna care to tell.

BIDE YE YET.

ANONYMOUS. From Herd's Collection, 1769. Air-"The wayward wife.

GIN I had a wee house an' a canty wee fire,
An' a bonnie wee wifie to praise and admire,
Wi' a bonnie wee yardie aside a wee burn,
Fareweel to the bodies that yaumer and mourn.
Sae bide ye yet, an' bide ye yet;
Ye little ken what's to betide ye yet;
Some bonnie wee body may fa' to my lot,
An I'll aye be canty wi' thinkin' o't.

When I gang a-field, an' come hame at e'en,
I'll get my wee wifie fu' neat an' fu' clean,
Wi' a bonnie wee bairnie upon her knee,
That'll cry papa or daddy to me.

Sae bide ye yet, &c.

An' if there should ever happen to be
A difference atween my wee wifie an' me,
In hearty good humour, although she be teased,
I'll kiss her an' clap her until she be pleased.
Sae bide ye yet, &c.

THE BRISK YOUNG LAD.

ANONYMOUS. Herd's Collection, 1776. Air-"Bung your eye in the morning."

THERE cam' a young man to my daddie's door,

My daddie's door, my daddie's door;

There cam' a young man to my daddie's door,
Cam' seeking me to woo.

And wow, but he was a braw young lad,
A brisk young lad, and a braw young lad;
And wow, but he was a braw young lad,
Cam' seeking me to woo.

But I was baking when he came,
When he came, when he came ;
I took him in and gied him a scone,
To thowe his frozen mou',

I set him in aside the bink;

I ga'e him bread and ale to drink;
But ne'er a bly the styme wad he blink
Until his wame was fu'.

Gae, get you gone, you cauldrife wooer,
Ye sour-looking, cauldrife wooer!
I straightway show'd him to the door,
Saying, Come nae mair to woo.

There lay a deuk-dub before the door,
Before the door, before the door;
There lay a deuk-dub before the door,
And there fell he, I trow.

Out cam' the gudeman, and high he shouted;
Out cam' the gudewife, and laigh she louted;
And a' the toun-neebors were gather'd about it;
And there lay he, I trow.

Then out cam' I, and sneer'd and smiled:
Ye cam' to woo, but ye're a' beguiled;

Ye've fa'en i' the dirt, and ye're a' befiled:

We'll hae nae mair o' you.

The chorus is repeated at the end of every stanza. The music of this old song is quaint, characteristic, and peculiarly Scottish.

TIBBIE FOWLER.

From Herd's Collection, 1776. Air-"Tibbie Fowler."

TIBBIE Fowler o' the glen,

There's ower many wooin' at her;

Tibbie Fowler o' the glen,

There's ower many wooin' at her.

Wooin' at her, pu'in' at her,

Courtin' her, and canna get her;

Filthy elf! it's for her pelf

That a' the lads are wooin' at her.

Ten cam' east, and ten cam' west,
Ten cam' rowin' o'er the water;
Twa cam' down the lang dyke-side:
There's twa-and-thirty wooin' at her!

There's seven but and seven ben,
Seven i' the pantry wi' her;
Twenty head about the door:
There's ane-and-forty wooin' at her!

She's got pendles in her lugs-
Cockle-shells wad set her better!
High-heel'd shoon and siller tags;

An' a' the lads are wooin' at her!