But should my canker'd daddy gar
Me tak him 'gainst my inclination,
I warn the fumbler to beware

That antlers dinna claim their station.

Hout

awa, I winna hae him!

Na, forsooth, I winna hae him!.

I'm fley'd to crack the haly band,

Sae lawty says, I shou'd na hae him.

The scorn of youth and beauty for age and gray hairs was a favourite subject with our old lyrists; and we have not probably a more ancient song of that kind, or a more successful one, than "The Carle he came o'er the croft." It is trueth at Allan Ramsay abated the grossness of the original song, and probably augmented its humour; but those who laugh at the manner in which the merry maiden speculates on her hope of matrimonial comforts, and the pleasant punishment with which she threatens her hoary lover, will laugh at what moved the mirth of our ancestors two hundred years ago. The old song was published in the Orpheus Caledonius in 1725. It would appear that the ancient suitor was a highlander. I have heard verses very different from the copies of Ramsay and Thomson.-I cannot commend their delicacy. This is a passable one:

He gae me a hollin sark,

An' his beard new shaven,

And sought to kiss me in the dark,—

Foul fa' him gin I'll hae him!

SLEEPY BODY.

O sleepy body,

And drowsy body,

O wiltuna waken and turn thee:

To drivel and draunt,

While I sigh and gaunt,

Gives me good reason to scorn thee.

T

When thou shouldst be kind,

Thou turns sleepy and blind,

And snoters and snores far frae me.
Wae light on thy face,

Thy drowsy embrace

Is enough to gar me betray thee.

J

This clever little song is a translation of some Latin verses; it appeared first in Allan Ramsay's collection with a mark intimating that the verses were old, with additions. I wish so well to the air as to desire that a verse or two were added; for the brevity of the song makes the pleasure cease ere it be well begun. I should like a song in the feeling of the old words. Some one I am afraid will take up the air, discover that it may be sung slow with expression, and pour over its pleasant liveliness a lyric flood of drowsy sensibility. We have plenty of moving and touching songs and I would rather laugh than cry.

THE WIDOW.

The widow can bake, and the widow can brew,
The widow can shape, and the widow can sew,
And mony braw things the widow can do;
Then have at the widow, my laddie.
With courage attack her, baith early and late,
To kiss her and clap her you manna be blate,
Speak well, and do better, for that's the best gate
To win a young widow, my laddie.

The widow she's youthfu', and never ae hair
The waur for the wearing, and has a good skair
Of every thing lovely, she's witty and fair,

And has a rich jointure, my laddie.

What cou'd you wish better your pleasure to crown,
Than a widow, the bonniest toast in the town,
With naething, but draw in your stool and sit down,
And sport with the widow, my laddie?

Then till 'er, and kill 'er with courtesie dead,

Though stark love and kindness be all ye can plead ; Be heartsome and airy, and hope to succeed

With a bonny gay widow, my laddie.

Strike iron while 'tis het, if ye'd have it to wald,

For fortune ay favours the active and bauld,

But ruins the wooer that's thowless and cauld,

Unfit for the widow, my

laddie.

There was once an old free song, the burthen of which gives a name to the air to which this song is sung, called "Wap at the widow, my laddie." Allan Ramsay infused a more modest spirit through it, without lessening its unobjectionable attractions; and the song thus renovated in a purer, but still a very free taste, keeps hold of public favour. We have many rude rhymes, and still ruder proverbs, expressive of the ease with which the scruples of a rosy young widow are vanquished; but the song itself says quite enough, and I shall not illustrate the plain and simple text by either rhyme or proverb.

WIDOW, ARE YE WAUKIN?

O wha's that at my chamber-door?
Fair widow, are ye wauking?
Auld carle, your suit give o'er,

Your love lies a' in tauking.
Gi'e me a lad that's young

and tight,

Sweet like an April meadow; "Tis sic as he can bless the sight And bosom of a widow.

O widow, wilt thou let me in,

I'm pawky, wise, and thrifty,

And come of a right gentle kin,
I'm little mair than fifty.
Daft carle, dit your mouth,
What signifies how pawky,
Or gentle-born ye be,-bot youth?
In love you're but a gawky.

Then, widow, let these guineas speak,
That powerfully plead clinkan,
And if they fail, my mouth I'll steek,
And nae mair love will think on.
These court indeed, I maun confess,
I think they make you young, Sir,
And ten times better can express

Affection, than your tongue, Sir.

In ancient times, an old man assuming the vivacity of youth, and making love to the fair and the blooming, was a prime subject for lyrical mirth; and many a side has been agreeably shaken by the wit and the humour which such a circumstance excited. This is a matter which seems to have afforded Allan Ramsay abundance of amusement, and his poetry bears token in many places that he thought such an unnatural scene as gray age and blooming youth presented was worthy of satire. But he has given to gold the eloquence which I am afraid it will be often found to possess: the stories of those who live in misery, but who dine in silver, might fill a volume. Ramsay found a witty and indelicate old ditty called "Widow, are ye wakin," and