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She leugh an' bad me let her hame,

Her mither sair wad flyte an' scauld ; But ere I quat my bonny Bess

Anither tale I trow she tauld.

On Tysday night, fou weel I wat,

Wi' hinny words I row'd my tongue, Raught down my plaid, an stievely stak

Untill my neive a hazel rung. Now whan I con’d my artless tale

Gaun linkin' owre the lilie lea, Fou weel I trow'd that ilka bush

Some jeering question speir'd at me.

The bleeter cry'd frae yont the loch,

"O hoolie, hoolie-whare ye gaun ?" The craik reply'd frae 'mang the corn,

Turn out your taes, my bonny man.” An' soon I faund wi' shiv’rin' shanks,

My heart play dunt through basfou fear, Whan glow'rin' owre the kail-yard dyke

To see gin a' the coast was clear ;

An' there, like ony nightly thief,

Wi' eerie swither lour'd awhile, Till rallying ilka traitor nerve,

I lightly laup outowr the stile ; Syne gae the glass twa cannie pats,

An' Bessie bade na lang frae me;

The rousty lock was ullied weel,

An' ilka hinge o' cheepin' free.
O say, ye haly Minstrel band,

Wha saw the saft, the silken hour,
Though joys celestial on ye wait,

Say, was your bliss mair chastely pure ?
Blythly hae I screw'd my pipes,

An' blythly play'd the lee-lang day,
An, happy been wi' bonny Bess

Ayont the mow amang the hay,

THE DRINKIN', O.

A SANG FOR THE LADIBS.

TUNE-Dunbarton Drums.

O WAE to the wearifu' drinkin', O!
That foe to reflection and thinkin', O!

Our charms are gi'en in vain !

Social conversation's gane ! For the rattlin' o' guns an' the drinkin', O. O why will you ply at the drinkin', O? Which to weakness will soon lead you linkin', 0;

These eyes that shine sae bright

Soon will be a weary sight,
When ye're a' sittin' noddin' an' winkin', 0 !

For ever may we grieve for the drinkin', 0!
The respect that is due daily sinkin', O!

Our presence sair abused,

An' our company refused,
An' its a' for the wearifu' drinkin', O !

O drive us not away wi' your drinkin', O!
We like your presence mair than ye're think-

in', O!
We'll gie ye anither sang,

An' ye're no to think it lang,
For the sake o' your wearifu' drinkin', O!

Sweet delicacy, turn us to blinkin', 0!
For by day the guns and swords still are clink-

in', 0!
An' at night the flowin' bowl

Bothers ilka manly soul,
Then there's naething but beblin' an' drinkin', O!

Gentle Peace, come an’ wean them frae drink.

in', 0! Bring the little footy boy wi' you winkin', 0!

Gar him thraw at ilka man,

An' wound as deep he can,
Or we're ruin'd by the wearifu' drinkin, O!

GRACIE MILLER.

Tune-Braes of Balquhidder.

“LITTLE, queer bit auld body,

Whar ye gaun sae late at e'en ? Sic a massy auld body

I saw never wi’ my een.“I'm gaun to court the bonniest lass

That ever stepp'd in leather shoe.”' “But little shabby auld body,

Where's the lass will look at you ?

“ Ere I war kiss'd wi' ane like you,

Or sic a man cam to my bed, I'd rather kiss the hawkit cow,

An' in my bosom tak a taed. Wha ever weds wi' sic a stock

Will be a gibe to a’ the lave : Little, stupit auld body.

Rather think upon your grave.”

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“But I'm sae deep in love wi' ane,

I'll wed or die, it maks na whether : O? she's the prettiest, sweetest queen,

That ever brush'd the dew frae heather ; The fairest Venus ever drawn

Is naething but a bogle till her ;

She's fresher than the morning dawn,
An' hark--her name is Gracie Miller."

She rais'd her hands; her een they reel'd;

Then wi' a skirt outowr she fell;
An' aye she leugh, an'aye she squeeld,

Hey! mercy! body, that's mysel'!"
Then down he hurkled by her side,

An' kiss'd her hand, an' warmly woo'd her: An' while she leugh, an' whiles she sigh'd,

An' lean'd her head upon his shoulder.

“O pity me, my bonny Grace !

My words are true, ye needna doubt 'em, Nae man can see your bonny face

An' keep his senses a' about him.” “ Troth, honest man, I kend lang syne

Nae ither lass could equal wi' me; But yet the brag sae justly mine

Was tint, till you hae chanc'd to see me,

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Though ye want yudith, gear, an’ mense,

Ye hae a dash o' amorous fire ;
Ye hae good taste, an' sterling sense,

An ye sal hae your heart's desire."
O, woman! woman ! after death,

If that vain nature still is given,
An' diels get leave to use their breath,

They'll flatier ye into hell frae heaven.

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