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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,
As to the north I took my way,
The mirksome night did me enfauld,
I knew na where to lodge till day.

By my good luck a maid I met,
Just in the middle o' my care;
And kindly she did me invite

To walk into a chamber fair.

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid,
And thank'd her for her courtesie;
I bow'd fu' low unto this maid,
And bade her mak a bed to me.

She made the bed baith large and wide,
Wi' twa white hands she spread it down;
She put the cup to her rosy lips,

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And drank, Young man, now sleep ye soun'."

She snatch'd the candle in her hand,
And frae my chamber went wi' speed;
But I call'd her quickly back again
To lay some mair below my head.

A cod she laid below my head,
And served me wi' due respect;
And to salute her wi' a kiss,

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,
Her teeth were like the ivorie;
Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine,
The lass that made the bed to me.
Her bosom was the driven snaw,

Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see;
Her limbs the polish'd marble stane,
The lass that made the bed to me.
I kiss'd her owre and owre again,

And aye she wist na what to say;
I laid her 'tween me and the wa'-
The lassie thought na lang till day
Upon the morrow when we rose,
I thank'd her for her courtesie;
But aye she blush'd, and aye she sigh'd,
And said, "Alas! ye've ruin'd me.'

I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne,
While the tear stood twinklin' in her ee;
I said, "My lassie, dinna cry,

For ye aye shall mak the bed to me."

She took her mither's Holland sheets,
And made them a' in sarks to me,
Blythe and merry may she be,

The lass that made the bed to me.

The bonnie lass made the bed to me,
The braw lass made the bed to me:
I'll ne'er forget till the day I die,

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,
And grim surly winter is near?

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,
Yet long, long too well have I known,
All that has caused this wreck in my bosom,
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone.

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal,
Nor hope dare a comfort bestow :

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,
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee;
Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see,
And come as ye were na comin' to me.
And come, &c.

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me,
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd nae a flie ;
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black ee,
Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me.
Yet look, &c.

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.
TUNE-The Caledonian Hunt's Delight.
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
Chloris, Chloris all the theme,

Why, why wouldst thou cruel,
Wake thy lover from his dream?

WILLIE WASTLE.

TUNE-The Eight Men of Moidart.

WILLIE WASTLE dwalt on Tweed,
The spot they called it Linkum-doddie;
Willie was a wabster guid,

Cou'd stown a clew wi' ony bodie.
He had a wife was dour and din,
Oh Tinkler Madgie was her mither;
Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wad na gie a button for her.

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