Read Ebook: The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volumes 1-6. The Songs of Scotland of the Past Half Century by Rogers Charles Editor

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Ebook has 7941 lines and 615609 words, and 159 pages

Were I but able to rehearse My Ewie's praise in proper verse, I 'd sound it forth as loud and fierce As ever piper's drone could blaw; The Ewie wi' the crookit horn, Wha had kent her might hae sworn Sic a Ewe was never born, Hereabout nor far awa'; Sic a Ewe was never born, Hereabout nor far awa'.

I never needed tar nor keil To mark her upo' hip or heel, Her crookit horn did as weel To ken her by amo' them a'; She never threaten'd scab nor rot, But keepit aye her ain jog-trot, Baith to the fauld and to the cot, Was never sweir to lead nor caw; Baith to the fauld and to the cot, &c.

Cauld nor hunger never dang her, Wind nor wet could never wrang her, Anes she lay an ouk and langer Furth aneath a wreath o' snaw: Whan ither ewies lap the dyke, And eat the kail, for a' the tyke, My Ewie never play'd the like, But tyc'd about the barn wa'; My Ewie never play'd the like, &c.

A better or a thriftier beast Nae honest man could weel hae wist, For, silly thing, she never mist To hae ilk year a lamb or twa': The first she had I gae to Jock, To be to him a kind o' stock, And now the laddie has a flock O' mair nor thirty head ava'; And now the laddie has a flock, &c.

I lookit aye at even' for her, Lest mishanter should come o'er her, Or the fowmart might devour her, Gin the beastie bade awa; My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, Well deserved baith girse and corn, Sic a Ewe was never born, Hereabout nor far awa'; Sic a Ewe was never born, &c.

Yet last ouk, for a' my keeping, A villain cam' when I was sleeping, Sta' my Ewie, horn, and a': I sought her sair upo' the morn, And down aneath a buss o' thorn I got my Ewie's crookit horn, But my Ewie was awa'; I got my Ewie's crookit horn, &c.

O! gin I had the loon that did it, Sworn I have as well as said it, Though a' the warld should forbid it, I wad gie his neck a thra': I never met wi' sic a turn As this sin' ever I was born, My Ewie, wi' the crookit horn, Silly Ewie, stown awa'; My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c.

O! had she died o' crook or cauld, As Ewies do when they grow auld, It wad na been, by mony fauld, Sae sair a heart to nane o's a': For a' the claith that we hae worn, Frae her and her's sae aften shorn, The loss o' her we could hae born, Had fair strae-death ta'en her awa'; The loss o' her we could hae born, &c.

But thus, poor thing, to lose her life, Aneath a bleedy villain's knife, I 'm really fleyt that our guidwife Will never win aboon 't ava: O! a' ye bards benorth Kinghorn, Call your muses up and mourn, Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn Stown frae 's, and fell'd and a'! Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, &c.

O! WHY SHOULD OLD AGE SO MUCH WOUND US?

O! why should old age so much wound us? There is nothing in it all to confound us: For how happy now am I, With my old wife sitting by, And our bairns and our oys all around us; For how happy now am I, &c.

We began in the warld wi' naething, And we 've jogg'd on, and toil'd for the ae thing; We made use of what we had, And our thankful hearts were glad, When we got the bit meat and the claithing; We made use of what we had, &c.

We have lived all our lifetime contented, Since the day we became first acquainted: It 's true we 've been but poor, And we are so to this hour, But we never yet repined or lamented; It 's true we 've been but poor, &c.

When we had any stock, we ne'er vauntit, Nor did we hing our heads when we wantit; But we always gave a share Of the little we could spare, When it pleased a kind Heaven to grant it; But we always gave a share, &c.

What though we cannot boast of our guineas? We have plenty of Jockies and Jeanies; And these, I 'm certain, are More desirable by far Than a bag full of poor yellow steinies; And these, I am certain, are, &c.

We have seen many wonder and ferly, Of changes that almost are yearly, Among rich folks up and down, Both in country and in town, Who now live but scrimply and barely; Among rich folks up and down, &c.

Then why should people brag of prosperity? A straiten'd life we see is no rarity; Indeed, we 've been in want, And our living 's been but scant, Yet we never were reduced to need charity; Indeed, we 've been in want, &c.

In this house we first came together, Where we 've long been a father and mither; And though not of stone and lime, It will last us all our time; And I hope we shall ne'er need anither; And though not of stone and lime, &c.

And when we leave this poor habitation, We 'll depart with a good commendation; We 'll go hand in hand, I wiss, To a better house than this, To make room for the next generation; We 'll go hand in hand, I wiss, &c.

Then why should old age so much wound us? &c.

This tune requires O to be added at the end of each of the long lines, but in reading the song the O is better omitted.

STILL IN THE WRONG.

LIZZY LIBERTY.

There lives a lassie i' the braes, And Lizzy Liberty they ca' her, When she has on her Sunday's claes, Ye never saw a lady brawer; So a' the lads are wooing at her, Courting her, but canna get her; Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there 's ow'r mony wooing at her!

Her mither ware a tabbit mutch, Her father was an honest dyker, She 's a black-eyed wanton witch, Ye winna shaw me mony like her: So a' the lads are wooing at her, Courting her, but canna get her; Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her!

A kindly lass she is, I 'm seer, Has fowth o' sense and smeddum in her, And nae a swankie far nor near, But tries wi' a' his might to win her: They 're wooing at her, fain would hae her, Courting her, but canna get her; Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there 's ow'r mony wooing at her!

For kindly though she be, nae doubt, She manna thole the marriage tether, But likes to rove and rink about, Like Highland cowt amo' the heather: Yet a' the lads are wooing at her, Courting her, but canna get her; Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.

It 's seven year, and some guid mair, Syn Dutch Mynheer made courtship till her, A merchant bluff and fu' o' care, Wi' chuffy cheeks, and bags o' siller; So Dutch Mynheer was wooing at her, Courting her, but cudna get her; Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her.

Neist to him came Baltic John, Stept up the brae, and leukit at her, Syne wear his wa', wi' heavy moan, And in a month or twa forgat her: Baltic John was wooing at her, Courting her, but cudna get her; Filthy elf, she 's nae herself, wi' sae mony wooing at her.

Syne after him cam' Yankie Doodle, Frae hyne ayont the muckle water; Though Yankie 's nae yet worth a boddle, Wi' might and main he would be at her: Yankie Doodle 's wooing at her, Courting her, but canna get her; Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.

Now Monkey French is in a roar, And swears that nane but he sall hae her, Though he sud wade through bluid and gore, It 's nae the king sall keep him frae her: So Monkey French is wooing at her, Courting her, but canna get her; Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her.

For France, nor yet her Flanders' frien', Need na think that she 'll come to them; They 've casten aff wi' a' their kin, And grace and guid have flown frae them; They 're wooing at her, fain wad hae her, Courting her, but canna get her; Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.

A stately chiel they ca' John Bull Is unco thrang and glaikit wi' her; And gin he cud get a' his wull, There 's nane can say what he wad gi'e her: Johnny Bull is wooing at her, Courting her, but canna get her; Filthy Ted, she 'll never wed, as lang 's sae mony 's wooing at her.

Even Irish Teague, ayont Belfast, Wadna care to speir about her; And swears, till he sall breathe his last, He 'll never happy be without her: Irish Teague is wooing at her, Courting her, but canna get her; Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her.

But Donald Scot 's the happy lad, Though a' the lave sud try to rate him; Whan he steps up the brae sae glad, She disna ken maist whare to set him: Donald Scot is wooing at her, Courting her, will maybe get her; Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her.

Now, Donald, tak' a frien's advice-- I ken fu' weel ye fain wad hae her; As ye are happy, sae be wise, And ha'd ye wi' a smackie frae her: Ye 're wooing at her, fain wad hae her, Courting her, will maybe get her; Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there 's ow'r mony wooing at her.

Ye 're weel, and wat'sna, lad, they 're sayin', Wi' getting leave to dwall aside her; And gin ye had her a' your ain, Ye might na find it mows to guide her: Ye 're wooing at her, fain wad hae her, Courting her, will maybe get her; Cunning quean, she 's ne'er be mine, as lang 's sae mony 's wooing at her.

THE STIPENDLESS PARSON.

How happy a life does the Parson possess, Who would be no greater, nor fears to be less; Who depends on his book and his gown for support, And derives no preferment from conclave or court! Derry down, &c.

Without glebe or manse settled on him by law, No stipend to sue for, nor vic'rage to draw; In discharge of his office he holds him content, With a croft and a garden, for which he pays rent. Derry down, &c.

With a neat little cottage and furniture plain, And a spare room to welcome a friend now and then; With a good-humour'd wife in his fortune to share, And ease him at all times of family care. Derry down, &c.

With a few of the Fathers, the oldest and best, And some modern extracts pick'd out from the rest; With a Bible in Latin, and Hebrew, and Greek, To afford him instruction each day of the week. Derry down, &c.

What children he has, if any are given, He thankfully trusts to the kindness of Heaven; To religion and virtue he trains them while young, And with such a provision he does them no wrong. Derry down, &c.

With labour below, and with help from above, He cares for his flock, and is bless'd with their love: Though his living, perhaps, in the main may be scant, He is sure, while they have, that he 'll ne'er be in want. Derry down, &c.

With no worldly projects nor hurries perplex'd, He sits in his closet and studies his text; And while he converses with Moses or Paul, He envies not bishop, nor dean in his stall. Derry down, &c.

Not proud to the poor, nor a slave to the great, Neither factious in church, nor pragmatic in state, He keeps himself quiet within his own sphere, And finds work sufficient in preaching and prayer. Derry down, &c.

In what little dealings he 's forced to transact, He determines with plainness and candour to act; And the great point on which his ambition is set, Is to leave at the last neither riches nor debt. Derry down, &c.

Thus calmly he steps through the valley of life, Unencumber'd with wealth, and a stranger to strife; On the bustlings around him unmoved he can look, And at home always pleased with his wife and his book. Derry down, &c.

THE MAN OF ROSS.

When fops and fools together prate, O'er punch or tea, of this or that, What silly poor unmeaning chat Does all their talk engross! A nobler theme employs my lays, And thus my honest voice I raise In well-deserved strains to praise The worthy Man of Ross.

His lofty soul Scorns every selfish, low design, And ne'er was known to repine, At any earthly loss: But still contented, frank, and free, In every state, whate'er it be, Serene and staid we always see The worthy Man of Ross.

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