Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/192

174 An' what like some disaster keen,

Can chase the glamour frae our een,

An' bring us to oursel's again?

As was the fate o' my auld pate,

When that night late, I took the gate,

As crouse as ony cock, man.

For, sad misluck! without my hat,

I doiting cam' awa', man,

An' when I down the Drygate cam',

The win' began to blaw, man.

When I cam' to the Drygate Brig,

The win' blew aff my guid brown wig,

That whirled like ony whirligig,

As up it flew, out o' my view,

While I stood glowrin', waefu' blue,

Wi' wide extended jaw, man.

When I began to grape for't syne,

Thrang poutrin' wi' my staff, man,

I coupet owre a meikle stane,

An' skailed my pickle snuff, man

My staff out o' my hand did jump,

An' hit my snout a dreadfu' thump,

Whilk raised a most confounded lump,

But whar it flew, I never knew,

Yet sair I rue this mark sae blue,

It leuks sae fleesome waff, man.

O had you seen my waefu' plight,

Your mirth had been but sma', man,

An' yet, a queerer antic sight,

I trow ye never saw, man.

I've lived thir fifty years an' mair,

But solemnly I here declare,

I ne'er before met loss sae sair;

My wig flew aff, I tint my staff,

I skail'd my snuff, I peel'd my loof,

An' brak my snout an' a', man.

Now wad ye profit by my loss?

Then tak' advice frae me, man,

An' ne'er let common sense tak' wing,

On fumes o' barley bree, man;

For drink can heeze a man sae high,

As mak' his head 'maist touch the sky,

But down he tumbles by-an'-by,

Wi' sic a thud, 'mang stanes an' mud,

That aft it's guid, if dirt an' bluid

Be a' he has to dree, man.

I.

[ beautiful tune of "Roslin Castle" has been often erroneously ascribed to Oswald, a musical composer who lived in the early part of the last century. But it is to be found in a publication before his day—M'Gibbon's Collection of Scots Tunes,—where it is called "The House of Glams." The old words are supposed to be lost. The following appear in Herd's Collection, 1776, but by what author is not known.]

Roslin castle's echoing walls

Resound my shepherd's ardent calls,

My Colin bids me come away,

And love demands I should obey.

His melting strain and tuneful lay,

So much the charms of love display,

I yield—nor longer can refrain

To own my love, and bless my swain.