Poems And Songs Of Robert Burns Part 67

Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet, Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet, Gae seek for pleasure whare you will, But here I never miss'd it yet, We're a' dry wi' drinkin o't, We're a' dry wi' drinkin o't; The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife; He could na preach for thinkin o't.

Song--Tam Glen

My heart is a-breaking, dear t.i.ttie, Some counsel unto me come len', To anger them a' is a pity, But what will I do wi' Tam Glen?

I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow, In poort.i.th I might mak a fen; What care I in riches to wallow, If I maunna marry Tam Glen!

There's Lowrie the Laird o' Dumeller-- "Gude day to you, brute!" he comes ben: He brags and he blaws o' his siller, But when will he dance like Tam Glen!

My minnie does constantly deave me, And bids me beware o' young men; They flatter, she says, to deceive me, But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen!

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, He'd gie me gude hunder marks ten; But, if it's ordain'd I maun take him, O wha will I get but Tam Glen!

Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing, My heart to my mou' gied a sten'; For thrice I drew ane without failing, And thrice it was written "Tam Glen"!

The last Halloween I was waukin My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken, His likeness came up the house staukin, And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen!

Come, counsel, dear t.i.ttie, don't tarry; I'll gie ye my bonie black hen, Gif ye will advise me to marry The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen.

Carle, An The King Come

Chorus.--Carle, an the King come, Carle, an the King come, Thou shalt dance and I will sing, Carle, an the King come.

An somebody were come again, Then somebody maun cross the main, And every man shall hae his ain, Carle, an the King come.

Carle, an the King come, &c.

I trow we swapped for the worse, We gae the boot and better horse; And that we'll tell them at the cross, Carle, an the King come.

Carle, an the King come, &c.

Coggie, an the King come, Coggie, an the King come, I'se be fou, and thou'se be toom Coggie, an the King come.

Coggie, an the King come, &c.

The Laddie's Dear Sel'

There's a youth in this city, it were a great pity That he from our la.s.sies should wander awa'; For he's bonie and braw, weel-favor'd witha', An' his hair has a natural buckle an' a'.

His coat is the hue o' his bonnet sae blue, His f.e.c.ket is white as the new-driven snaw; His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the slae, And his clear siller buckles, they dazzle us a'.

For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin; Weel-featur'd, weel-tocher'd, weel-mounted an' braw; But chiefly the siller that gars him gang till her, The penny's the jewel that beautifies a'.

There's Meg wi' the mailen that fain wad a haen him, And Susie, wha's daddie was laird o' the Ha'; There's lang-tocher'd Nancy maist fetters his fancy, --But the laddie's dear sel', he loes dearest of a'.

Whistle O'er The Lave O't

First when Maggie was my care, Heav'n, I thought, was in her air, Now we're married--speir nae mair, But whistle o'er the lave o't!

Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, Sweet and harmless as a child-- Wiser men than me's beguil'd; Whistle o'er the lave o't!

How we live, my Meg and me, How we love, and how we gree, I care na by how few may see-- Whistle o'er the lave o't!

Wha I wish were maggot's meat, Dish'd up in her winding-sheet, I could write--but Meg maun see't-- Whistle o'er the lave o't!

My Eppie Adair

Chorus.--An' O my Eppie, my jewel, my Eppie, Wha wad na be happy wi' Eppie Adair?

By love, and by beauty, by law, and by duty, I swear to be true to my Eppie Adair!

By love, and by beauty, by law, and by duty, I swear to be true to my Eppie Adair!

And O my Eppie, &c.

A' pleasure exile me, dishonour defile me, If e'er I beguile ye, my Eppie Adair!

A' pleasure exile me, dishonour defile me, If e'er I beguile thee, my Eppie Adair!

And O my Eppie, &c.

On The Late Captain Grose's Peregrinations Thro' Scotland

Collecting The Antiquities Of That Kingdom

Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots, Frae Maidenkirk to Johnie Groat's;-- If there's a hole in a' your coats, I rede you tent it: A chield's amang you takin notes, And, faith, he'll prent it:

If in your bounds ye chance to light Upon a fine, fat fodgel wight, O' stature short, but genius bright, That's he, mark weel; And wow! he has an unco sleight O' cauk and keel.

By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin, Or kirk deserted by its riggin, It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in Some eldritch part, Wi' deils, they say, Lord save's! colleaguin At some black art.

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumer, Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamour, And you, deep-read in h.e.l.l's black grammar, Warlocks and witches, Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, Ye midnight b.i.t.c.hes.

It's tauld he was a sodger bred, And ane wad rather fa'n than fled; But now he's quat the spurtle-blade, And dog-skin wallet, And taen the--Antiquarian trade, I think they call it.

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets: Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets, Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets, A towmont gude; And parritch-pats and auld saut-backets, Before the Flood.