Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, O, sweetly smile on Somebody!

Frae ilka danger keep him free, And send me safe my Somebody.

Oh-hon! for Somebody!

Oh-hey! for Somebody!

I wad do--what wad I not?

For the sake o' Somebody!

WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YE, MY LAD

O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad; O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad: Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad.

But warily tent, when ye come to court me, And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee; Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see, And come as ye were na comin' to me.

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie: But steal me a blink o' your bonie black ee, Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me.

Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee; But court na anither, tho' jokin' ye be, For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.

O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad; O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad: Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad.

THE DE'IL'S AWA' WI' THE EXCISEMAN

The De'il cam fiddling thro' the town, And danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman; And ilka wife cry'd 'Auld Mahoun, We wish you luck o' your prize, man.

We'll mak our maut, and brew our drink, We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man; And monie thanks to the muckle black De'il That danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.

'There's threesome reels, and foursome reels, There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man; But the ae best dance that cam to our lan', Was--the De'il's awa wi' the Exciseman.

We'll mak our maut, and brew our drink, We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man; And monie thanks to the muckle black De'il That danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.'

La.s.sIE WI' THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS

La.s.sie wi' the lint-white locks, Bonie la.s.sie, artless la.s.sie, Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks?

Wilt thou be my dearie O?

Now nature cleeds the flowery lea, And a' is young and sweet like thee; O wilt thou share its joys wi' me, And say thou'lt be my dearie O?

La.s.sie wi' the lint-white locks...

And when the welcome simmer-shower Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, We'll to the breathing woodbine bower At sultry noon, my dearie O.

La.s.sie wi' the lint-white locks...

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, The weary shearer's hameward way, Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, And talk o' love, my dearie O.

La.s.sie wi' the lint-white locks...

And when the howling wintry blast Disturbs my la.s.sie's midnight rest; Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, I'll comfort thee, my dearie O.

La.s.sie wi' the lint-white locks, Bonie la.s.sie, artless la.s.sie, Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks?

Wilt thou be my dearie O?

I LOVE MY JEAN

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonie la.s.sie lives, The la.s.sie I lo'e best: There wild woods grow, and rivers row, And monie a hill between; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair: I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air: There's not a bonie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green; There's not a bonie bird that sings, But minds me o' my Jean.

THE HAPPY TRIO

O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut, And Rob and Allan cam to pree; Three blither hearts that lee-lang night, Ye wad na find in Christendie.

We are na fou, we're no that fou, But just a drappie in our ee: The c.o.c.k may craw, the day may daw, And aye we'll taste the barley bree.

Here are we met, three merry boys, Three merry boys, I trow, are we; And monie a night we've merry been, And monie mae we hope to be!

It is the moon, I ken her horn, That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie; She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, But by my sooth she'll wait a wee!

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, A cuckold, coward loun is he!

Wha first beside his chair shall fa', He is the King amang us three!

We are na fou, we're no that fou, But just a drappie in our ee: The c.o.c.k may craw, the day may daw, And aye we'll taste the barley bree.

JOHN ANDERSON MY JO

John Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And monie a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo.