Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/256

238 In cotillions the French excel,

John Bull loves country dances;

The Spaniards dance fandangoes well;

Mynheer an allemande prances:

In foursome reels the Scots delight,

At threesome's they dance wondrous light,

But twasome's ding a' out o' sight,

Danc'd to the reel o' Bogie.

Come, lads, and view your partners weel,

Wale each a blythesome rogie:

I'll tak' this lassie to mysel',

She looks sae keen and vogie:

Now, piper lad, bang up the spring;

The country fashion is the thing,

To prie their mou's ere we begin

To dance the reel o' Bogie.

Now ilka lad has got a lass,

Save yon auld doited fogie,

And ta'en a fling upon the grass,

As they do in Stra'bogie;

But a' the lassies look sae fein,

We canna think oursel's to hain,

For they maun ha'e their come-again

To dance the reel o' Bogie.

Now a' the lads ha'e done their best,

Like true men o' Stra'bogie;

We'll stop a while and tak' a rest,

And tipple out a cogie.

Come now, my lads, and tak' your glass.

And try ilk other to surpass,

In wishing health to ev'ry lass,

To dance the reel o' Bogie.

[ by, bookseller, Glasgow.]

cauld kail in Aberdeen,

And bannocks in Strathbogie,

But naething drives awa' the spleen

Sae weel's a social cogie.

That mortal's life nae pleasure shares

Wha broods o'er a' that's fogie:

Whane'er I'm fash't wi' worldly cares,

I drown them in a cogie.

Thus merrily my time I pass,

With spirits brisk and vogie,

Blest wi' my bulks and my sweet lass,

My cronies and my cogie.

Then haste and gi'e's an auld Scots sang

Sic like as Kathrine Ogie;

A gude auld sang comes never wrang,

When o'er a social cogie.

[.—Tune, "Cauld kail in Aberdeen."]

poortith cauld, and sour disdain,

Hang o'er life's vale sae fogie,

The sun that brightens up the scene,

Is friendship's kindly cogie.

Then, O revere the cogie, sirs,

The friendly, social cogie;

It gars the wheels o' life rin light,

Though e'er sae doilt and clogie.

Let pride in fortune's chariots fly,

Sae empty, vain, and vogie;

The source of wit, the spring of joy,

Lies in the social cogie.

Then, O revere the cogie, sirs,

The independent cogie;

And never snool beneath the frown

Of onie selfish rogie.

Poor modest worth, with heartless e'e,

Sits hurkling in the bogie,

Till she asserts her dignity,

By virtue of the cogie.

Then, O revere the cogie, sirs,

The poor man's patron cogie,

It warsals care, it fights life's faughts,

And lifts him frae the bogie.

Gi'e feckless Spain her weak snail broo,

Gi'e France her weel spic'd frogie,

Gi'e brither John his luncheon too,

But gi'e to us our cogie.

Then, O revere the cogie, sirs,

Our kind heart-warming cogie;

We doubly feel the social tie,

When just a wee thought grogie.

In days of yore our sturdy sires,

Upon their hills sae scrogie,

Glow'd with true freedom's warmest fires,

And fought to save their cogie.