English Songs and Ballads Part 36

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING

She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine.

I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer, And neist my heart I'll wear her, For fear my jewel tine.

She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine.

The warld's wrack, we share o't, The warstle and the care o't; Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, And think my lot divine.

DUNCAN GRAY

Duncan Gray came here to woo, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, On blithe yule night when we were fou, Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Maggie coost her head fu' high, Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh; Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd; Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn; Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Time and chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Slighted love is sair to bide, Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie die?

She may gae to--France for me!

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

How it comes let doctors tell, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Meg grew sick--as he grew well, Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings; And O, her een, they spak sic things!

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan was a lad o' grace, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Maggie's was a piteous case, Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan couldna be her death, Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath; Now they're crouse and cantie baith!

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

MY AIN KIND DEARIE O

When o'er the hill the eastern star Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo; And owsen frae the furrow'd field Return sae dowf and wearie O; Down by the burn, where scented birks Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O.

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, My ain kind dearie O.

Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, And I were ne'er sae wearie O, I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O.

The hunter lo'es the morning sun, To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; At noon the fisher seeks the glen, Along the burn to steer, my jo; Gie me the hour o' gloamin' grey, It maks my heart sae cheery O, To meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O.

THE THORN

From the white blossom'd sloe my dear Chloe requested A sprig her fair breast to adorn, From the white blossom'd sloe my dear Chloe requested, A sprig her fair breast to adorn.

No! By heav'n! I exclaimed, may I perish, If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn!

When I show'd her a ring, and implor'd her to marry, She blushed like the dawning of morn, When I show'd her a ring, and implor'd her to marry, She blushed like the dawning of morn.

Yes! I'll consent, she replied, if you promise, That no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn.

JOHN BARLEYCORN

There was three kings into the East, Three kings both great and high, And they hae sworn a solemn oath, John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough'd him down, Put clods upon his head, And they hae sworn a solemn oath, John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful Spring came kindly on, And showers began to fall; John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surpris'd them all.

The sultry suns of Summer came, And he grew thick and strong, His head well-armed wi' pointed spears, That no one should him wrong.

The sober Autumn enter'd mild, When he grew wan and pale; His bending joints and drooping head Show'd he began to fail.

His colour sicken'd more and more, He faded into age; And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage.

They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp, And cut him by the knee; And tied him fast upon the cart, Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back, And cudgell'd him full sore; They hung him up before the storm, And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

They filled up a darksome pit With water to the brim, They heaved in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor, To work him further woe, And still as signs of life appear'd, They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, The marrow of his bones; But a miller used him worst of all, For he crush'd him between two stones.

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, And drank it round and round; And still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, Of n.o.ble enterprise; For if you do but taste his blood, 'Twill make your courage rise.

'Twill make a man forget his woe; 'Twill heighten all his joy; 'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, Tho' the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a gla.s.s in hand; And may his great prosperity Ne'er fail in old Scotland!