Wad marriage mak' you young again?
Wad woman's luve renew you?—
Awa', ye silly doitet man,
I canna, winna lo'e you."
"Witless hizzie, e'ens ye like,
The ne'er a doit I'm carin';
But men maun be the first to speak,
An' wanters maun be speirin'.
Yet, lassie, I ha'e lo'ed you lang,
An' now I'm come to woo you—
I'm no sae auld as clashes gang,
I think you'd better lo'e me!"
"Doitet bodie!—auld or young,
You needna langer tarry,
Gin ane be loutin' owre a rung,
He's no for me to marry.
Gae hame an' ance bethink yoursel'
How ye wad come to woo me—
And mind me i' your latter-will,
Bodie, gin ye lo'e me!"
The Lass o' Cambuslang.
[William Holmes.—Here first printed.]
In a cozie white cottage upon a hill side,
That cheerily looks on the green vale o' Clyde,
There lives a braw lassie wi' sunny-brown hair,
An' a face like the momin' sae ruddy an' fair.
I lo'ed her fu' weel when I saw her wee smile,
An' I thocht in my heart she look'd kindly the while;
She is gentle and gleesome, an' free frae a' pride—
She's the bonniest lass on the banks o' the Clyde.
O Clyde! thou art bonnie while flowing between
The thick twining branches o' soft dewy green;
Yet thy laneness sae deep was aye dowie to me,
Though the sun brichtly lay on ilk wee flower an' tree.
But the laneness is gane, and thy beauties appear
Like a vision o' hope through a sorrowfu' tear,
Ilka soun' that I hear, an' ilk flower that I see,
Seem happier noo sin' my love smiles on me.
When clear merry Kirkburn first meets thy embrace,
A tremulous ripple steals over thy face.
In a moment 'tis gone—then thegither ye run,
Gaily sparklin' alang in the licht o' the sun.
Sae my heart has been flichterin' aye sin' the day
I first met my love on the lane hawthorn way;
But our hearts mingled ance, then thegither we'll glide
Through life, wi' the sunshine o' love by our side.
Fair, fair be thy beauty for ever, dear stream!
On thy gowany banks long may true lovers dream!
My thochts wander to thee wherever I gang,
Sin' I met wi' the bonnie young lass o' Camb'slang.
The want o' Siller.
[From Chambers's Journal, No. 178.—Air "Roy's Wife o' Aldivalloch."]
Come, ragged brethren o' the Nine,
Join ilka honest purseless callan;
The waes o' duddy doublets sing,
When gousty want keeks through the hallen.
It's true I've nae great heart to sing,
Fuistit in auld hair-mouldy garret;
But yet there's ease in dulfu' croon,
Though there be little in the wallet.
Oh the waefu' want o' siller,
Weary fa' the want o' siller;
It mak's nae what be in your pow,
Gin your pouch be bare o' siller.
It's waur nor a' the waes o' life,
And sair benumbs a body's noddle;
For worth nor wit, without the pelf.
Is never counted worth a bodle.
It's no your wit, its no your lear,
Though ye should on Pegasus gallop;
It mak's na, gin your breeks be bare,
And hinging a' in tatter-wallop.
Oh the waefu', &c.
When baugh wi' care and fell mishap,
And puirtith hands a body gaunting,
There's never ane to speir your ail,
