Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/90

72 Ferlies four ye maun find me,

And that is twa and twa;

Or I'll never lie in your bed,

Either at stock or wa'.

It's ye maun get to me a plum

That in December grew;

And ye maun get a silk mantel,

That waft was ne'er ca'd through;

A sparrow's horn; a priest unborn,

This night to join us twa;

Or I'll nae lie in your bed,

Either at stock or wa'."

"My father he has winter fruit,

That in December grew;

My mother has an Indian gown,

That waft was ne'er ca'd through;

A sparrow's horn is quickly found;

There's ane on every claw,

And twa upon the neb o' him;

And ye shall get them a'.

The priest, he's standing at the door,

Just ready to come in;

Nae man can say that he was born,

Nae man, unless he sin;

A wild boar tore his mother's side,

He out o' it did fa';

Sae we'll baith lie in ae bed,

And ye'll lie neist the wa'."

Little kenned Girzie Sinclair,

That morning when she rase,

That this wad be the hindermost

O' a' her maiden days.

But now there's no within the realm,

I think, a blyther twa;

And they baith lie in ae bed,

And she lies neist the wa'.

["," says Burns, "is perhaps the first bottle-song that ever was composed." It appears in Ramsay's Tea-Table Miscellany, where it is marked as an old song.]

[ by for George Thomson's collection—Inserted by permission.]

white was my o'erlay as foam o' the linn,

And siller was clinkin' my pouches within;

When my lambkins were bleating on meadow and brae;

As I gaed to my love in new cleeding sae gay,

Kind was she, and my friends were free

But poverty parts gude companie.

How swift pass'd the minutes and hours of delight!

The piper play'd cheerly, the crusie burn'd bright;

And link'd in my hand was the maiden sae dear,

As she footed the floor in her holiday gear.

Woe is me, and can it then be,

That poverty parts sic companie!

We met at the fair, we met at the kirk,

We met in the sunshine, and met in the mirk,

And the sounds of her voice, and the blinks of her een,

The cheering and life of my bosom have been.

Leaves frae the tree at Martinmas flee;

And poverty parts sweet companie.