I'll cross him, and wrack him, until I heart-break him, And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. WHEN JANUAR' WIND. TUNE-The Lass that made the Bed to me WHEN Januar' wind was blawing cauld, By my good luck a maid I met, To walk into a chamber fair. I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, She made the bed baith large and wide, And drank, Young man, now sleep ye soun'." She snatch'd the candle in her hand, A cod she laid below my head, I put my arms about her neck. "Haud aff your hands, young man," she If says, "And dinna sae uncivil be: ye hae ony love for me, Oh wrang na my virginitie !" Her hair was like the links o' gowd, Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see; And aye she wist na what to say; I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne, For ye aye shall mak the bed to me." She took her mither's Holland sheets, The lass that made the bed to me. The bonnie lass made the bed to me, The lass that made the bed to me! 203 WHERE ARE THE JOYS? TUNE-Saw ye my Father. WHERE are the joys I have met in the morning, That danc'd to the lark's early song? Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring, At evening the wild woods among? No more a-winding the course of yon river, And marking sweet flow'rets so fair : No more I trace the light footsteps of plea sure, But sorrow and sad sighing care. Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, No, no! the bees humming round the gay roses, Proclaim it the pride of the year Fain would I hide what I fear to discover, Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal, Come then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish, Enjoyment I'll seek in my woe. WHISTLE AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD. TUNE-Whistle and I'll come to you, my Lad. OH whistle and I'll come to you, my lad, Oh whistle and I'll come to you, my lad; Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, Oh whistle and I'll come to you, my lad. But warily tent, when ye come to court me, At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee; But court nae anither, tho' jokin' ye be, For fear that she wile your fancy frae me. For fear, &c. WHY, WHY, TELL THY LOVER. Bliss he never must enjoy? Why, why undeceive him, And give all his hopes the lie? Oh why, while fancy, raptur'd, slumbers Why, why wouldst thou cruel, WILLIE WASTLE. TUNE-The Eight Men of Moidart. WILLIE WASTLE dwalt on Tweed, Cou'd stown a clew wi' ony bodie. I wad na gie a button for her. |