O father, O father, an ye think it fit, We'll send him a year to the college yet, We'll sew a green ribbon round about his hat, And that will let them ken he's to marry yet.

Lady Mary Ann was a flower in the dew, Sweet was its smell and bonie was its hue, And the longer it blossom'd the sweeter it grew, For the lily in the bud will be bonier yet.

Young Charlie Cochran was the sprout of an aik, Bonie and bloomin' and straught was its make, The sun took delight to shine for its sake, And it will be the brag o' the forest yet.

The simmer is gane when the leaves they were green, And the days are awa' that we hae seen, But far better days I trust will come again; For my bonie laddie's young, but he's growin' yet.

Kellyburn Braes

There lived a carl in Kellyburn Braes, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme; And he had a wife was the plague of his days, And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

Ae day as the carl gaed up the lang glen, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme; He met with the Devil, says, "How do you fen?"

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

I've got a bad wife, sir, that's a' my complaint, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme; "For, savin your presence, to her ye're a saint,"

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

It's neither your stot nor your staig I shall crave, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme; "But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have,"

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

"O welcome most kindly!" the blythe carl said, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme; "But if ye can match her ye're waur than ye're ca'd,"

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

The Devil has got the auld wife on his back, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme; And, like a poor pedlar, he's carried his pack, And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

He's carried her hame to his ain hallan door, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme; Syne bade her gae in, for a b.i.t.c.h, and a wh.o.r.e, And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o' his band, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme: Turn out on her guard in the clap o' a hand, And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

The carlin gaed thro' them like ony wud bear, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme; Whae'er she gat hands on cam near her nae mair, And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

A reekit wee deevil looks over the wa', Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme; "O help, maister, help, or she'll ruin us a'!"

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

The Devil he swore by the edge o' his knife, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme; He pitied the man that was tied to a wife, And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

The Devil he swore by the kirk and the bell, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme; He was not in wedlock, thank Heav'n, but in h.e.l.l, And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

Then Satan has travell'd again wi' his pack, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme; And to her auld husband he's carried her back, And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

I hae been a Devil the f.e.c.k o' my life, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme; "But ne'er was in h.e.l.l till I met wi' a wife,"

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

The Slave's Lament

It was in sweet Senegal that my foes did me enthral, For the lands of Virginia,--ginia, O: Torn from that lovely sh.o.r.e, and must never see it more; And alas! I am weary, weary O: Torn from that lovely sh.o.r.e, and must never see it more; And alas! I am weary, weary O.

All on that charming coast is no bitter snow and frost, Like the lands of Virginia,--ginia, O: There streams for ever flow, and there flowers for ever blow, And alas! I am weary, weary O: There streams for ever flow, and there flowers for ever blow, And alas! I am weary, weary O:

The burden I must bear, while the cruel scourge I fear, In the lands of Virginia,--ginia, O; And I think on friends most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear, And alas! I am weary, weary O: And I think on friends most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear, And alas! I am weary, weary O:

O Can Ye Labour Lea?

Chorus--O can ye labour lea, young man, O can ye labour lea?

It fee nor bount.i.th shall us twine Gin ye can labour lea.

I fee'd a man at Michaelmas, Wi' airle pennies three; But a' the faut I had to him, He could na labour lea, O can ye labour lea, &c.

O clappin's gude in Febarwar, An' kissin's sweet in May; But my delight's the ploughman lad, That weel can labour lea, O can ye labour lea, &c.

O kissin is the key o' luve, And clappin' is the lock; An' makin' o's the best thing yet, That e'er a young thing gat.

O can ye labour lea, &c.

The Deuks Dang O'er My Daddie

The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout, The deuks dang o'er my daddie, O!

The fien-ma-care, quo' the feirrie auld wife, He was but a paidlin' body, O!

He paidles out, and he paidles in, rn' he paidles late and early, O!

This seven lang years I hae lien by his side, An' he is but a fusionless carlie, O.

O haud your tongue, my feirrie auld wife, O haud your tongue, now Nansie, O: I've seen the day, and sae hae ye, Ye wad na ben sae donsie, O.

I've seen the day ye b.u.t.ter'd my brose, And cuddl'd me late and early, O; But downa-do's come o'er me now, And oh, I find it sairly, O!

The Deil's Awa Wi' The Exciseman

The deil cam fiddlin' thro' the town, And danc'd awa wi' th' Exciseman, And ilka wife cries, "Auld Mahoun, I wish you luck o' the prize, man."

Chorus--The deil's awa, the deil's awa, The deil's awa wi' the Exciseman, He's danc'd awa, he's danc'd awa, He's danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.

We'll mak our maut, and we'll brew our drink, We'll laugh, sing, and rejoice, man, And mony braw thanks to the meikle black deil, That danc'd awa wi' th' Exciseman.

The deil's awa, &c.

There's threesome reels, there's foursome reels, There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man, But the ae best dance ere came to the land Was--the deil's awa wi' the Exciseman.