BIRNIEBOUZLE.

It is said "the multitude never are wrong;" so be it. Well, then, this has been a popular street song for nearly thirty years. How does the instance justify the adage? Not well. However, bowing with humility to the public voice, in preference to my own judgment, I give it a place.

AIR-Braes of Tullimett.

WILL ye gang wi' me, lassie,

To the braes o' Birniebouzle?

Baith the yird an' sea, lassie,

Will I rob to fend ye.

I'll hunt the otter an' the brock,

The hart, the hare, an' heather cock,

An' pu' the limpet aff the rock,

To batten an' to mend ye.

If ye'll gang wi' me, lassie,

To the braes o' Birniebouzle,

Till the day you dee, lassie,

Want shall ne'er come near ye.
The peats I'll carry in a skull,
The cod an' ling wi' hooks I'll pull,
An' reave the eggs o' mony a gull,
To please my denty dearie.

Sae canty will we be, lassie,

At the braes o' Birniebouzle,

Donald Gun and me, lassie,

Ever sall attend ye.

Though we hae nowther milk nor meal, Nor lamb nor mutton, beef nor veal, We'll fank the porpy and the seal,

And that's the way to fend ye.

An' ye sall gang sae braw, lassie,

At the kirk o' Birniebouzle,

Wi' littit brogues an' a', lassie,

Wow but ye'll be vaunty!

An' you sall wear, when you are wed,

The kirtle an' the Heeland plaid,

An' sleep upon a heather bed,

Sae cozy an' sae canty.

If ye'll but marry me, lassie,
At the kirk o' Birniebouzle,
A' my joy shall be, lassie,

Ever to content ye.

I'll bait the line and bear the pail,

An' row the boat and spread the sail,

An' drag the larry at my tail,

When mussel hives are plenty.

Then come awa wi' me, lassie,

To the braes o' Birniebouzle;

Bonny lassie, dear lassie,

You shall ne'er repent ye.

For you shall own a bught o' ewes,
A brace o' gaits, and byre o' cows,

An' be the lady o' my house,

An' lads an' lasses plenty.

I HAE LOST MY LOVE.

A BITTER Song against the women.

I HAE lost my love, an' I dinna ken how,
I hae lost my love, an' I carena;

For laith will I be just to lie down an' dee,

And to sit down an' greet wad be bairnly;
But a screed o' ill-nature I canna weel help,
At having been guidit unfairly;

An' weel wad I like to gie women a skelp,
An' yerk their sweet haffits fu' yarely.

O! plague on the limmers, sae sly and demure, As pawkie as deils wi' their smiling;

As fickle as winter, in sunshine and shower,

The hearts o' a' mankind beguiling;

As sour as December, as soothing as May,

To suit their ain ends, never doubt them; Their ill faults I couldna tell ower in a day, But their beauty's the warst thing about them!

Ay, that's what sets up the haill warld in a lowe;
Make's kingdoms to rise and expire;
Man's micht is nae mair than a flaughten o' tow,
Opposed to a bleeze o' reid fire!

'Twas woman at first made creation to bend,

And of nature's prime lord made the fellow! An' 'tis her that will bring this ill warld to an end, An' that will be seen an' heard tell o' !