Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/224

206 [ popular tune called "Whistle o'er the lave o't" was composed about 1720, by John Bruce, a musician belonging to Dumfries. The old words are unfit for publication. The following was written by for Johnson's Museum.]

when Maggie was my care,

Heaven, 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 beguiled;

Sae, whistle o'er the lave o't.

How we live, my Meg and me,

How we love, and how we gree,

I carena by how few may see;

Sae, whistle o'er the lave o't.

Wha I wish were maggots' meat,

Dished up in her winding-sheet,

I could write—but Meg maun see't;

Sae, whistle o'er the lave o't.

[ song, to the tune of "Whistle o'er the lave o't," was written by a Scottish clergyman at Liverpool many years ago, and sung at an anniversary dinner held there in commemoration of the birth-day of Robert Burns.]

, by my troth, ilk brither dear,

I trow ye re a' right welcome here;

We'll prove to mirth our title clear,

But winna prove the slave o't.

Here's to the land o' bonnets blue,

Tartan kilts and tarry woo';

O for a waught o' mountain dew,

To toast the guid and brave o't.

Dowf and dowie be his lot,

Whae'er denies a brither Scot,

Wi' helping han' to share a groat,

If want should roak' him crave o't.

Here's to the land, &c.

As for the honest feeling heart,

May poortith never mak' it smart;

But heaven its best o' bliss impart,

As muckle's he would have o't.

Here's to the land, &c.

The war'ly wretch may fume and fret,

And grip and pinch baith air and late;

But what o' earth at last he'll get

Will only be a grave o't.

Here's to the land, &c.

May we, when eild shall bleach our crown

White as our native thistle's down,

Mount high to life and light aboon,

There to enjoy the lave o't.

Here's to the land, &c.

Then fill a bowl, and while we drink,

Well rivet closer friendship's link,

Till joys run ower, and cares deep sink

Beneath the whirling wave o't.

Here's to the land, &c.

[ by, Glasgow, about the year 1802, to the tune of "Whistle o'er the lave o't."—Mr. Lochore is author of Margaret and the Minister, Highland Donald, The Magic Pill, and other metrical tales.—Also, The Auld Sark Sleeve, A Landscape, &c.]

Rab to Kate, My sonsy dear,

I've woo'd ye mair than ha'f a-year,

An' if ye'd wed me ne'er cou'd speer,

Wi' blateness, an' the care o't.

Now to the point: sincere I'm wi't:

Will ye be my ha'f-marrow, sweet?

Shake ban's, and say a bargain be't,

An' ne'er think on the care o't.

Na, na, quo' Kate, I winna wed,

O' sic a snare I'll aye be rede;

How mony, thochtless, are misled

By marriage, an' the care o't!

A single life's a life o' glee,

A wife ne'er think to mak' o' me,

Frae toil an' sorrow I'll keep free,

An' a' the dool an' care o't.