With the flowers of the willow-tree blent is her tresses,
Now, woe-worn and pale, in the glen she is seen
Bewailing the cause of her rueful distresses,—
How fondly he vow'd—and how false he has been.
The Bridal o't.
[Written by Alexander Ross, author of "The Fortunate Shepherdess," a poem published in 1768, and of several Scottish songs, among others, of the well-known one called "The Rock and the wee pickle tow," or "The Spinning o't." Ross was born in Aberdeenshire about the year 1700, and was parish schoolmaster of Lochlee in Forfarshire, for fifty years. He died in 1783. The tune to the present song is a Highland strathspey called in some collections "Acharnac's Reel," and in others, "Lucy Campbell's Delight."]
They say that Jockey'll speed weel o't,
They say that Jockey'll speed weel o't,
For he grows brawer ilka day;
I hope we'll ha'e a bridal o't:
For yesternight, nae farther gane,
The back-house at the side-wa' o't,
He there wi' Meg was mirdin' seen;
I hope we'll ha'e a bridal o't.
An we had but a bridal o't,
An we had but a bridal o't,
We'd leave the rest unto good luck,
Although there might betide ill o't.
For bridal days are merry times,
And young folk like the coming o't,
And scribblers they bang up their rhymes,
And pipers play the bumming o't.
The lasses like a bridal o't,
The lasses like a bridal o't;
Their braws maun be in rank and file,
Although that they should guide ill o't.
The boddom o' the kist is then
Turn'd up into the inmost o't;
The end that held the keeks sae clean,
Is now become the teemest o't.
The bangster at the threshing o't,
The bangster at the threshing o't,
Afore it comes is fidgin fain,
And ilka day's a clashing o't:
He'll sell his jerkin for a groat,
His linder for another o't,
And ere he want to clear his shot,
His sark'll pay the tother o't.
The pipers and the fiddlers o't,
The pipers and the fiddlers o't,
Can smell a bridal unco far,
And like to be the middlers o't:
Fan thick and three-fauld they convene
Ilk ane envies the tother o't,
And wishes nane but him alaue
May ever see another o't.
Fan they ha'e done wi' eating o't,
Fan they ha'e done wi' eating o't,
For dancing they gae to the green,
And aiblins to the beatin o't:
He dances best that dances fast,
And loups at ilka reesing o't,
And claps his hands frae hough to hough,
And furls about the feezings o't.
The Spinnin' o’t.
[Alex. Ross.]
There was an auld wife had a wee pickle tow,
And she wad gae try the spinnin' o't;
She louted her doun, and her rock took a-low,
And that was a bad beginnin' o't.
She sat and she grat, and she flat and she flang,
And she threw and she blew, and she Wriggled and wrang,
And she chokit and boakit, and cried like to mang,
Alas, for the dreary beginnin' o't!
I've wanted a sark for these aught years and ten,
And this was to be the beginnin' o't;
But I vow I shall want it for as lang again,
Or ever I try the spinnin' o't.
For never since ever they ca'd as they ca' me,
Did sic a mishap and mischanter befa' me;
But ye shall ha'e leave baith to hang and to draw me,
The neist time I try the spinnin' o't.
