When I like you was young and free,
I valued not the proudest she;
Like you I vainly boasted then,
That men alone were born to reign.
Sae bide you yet, ges

Great Hercules and Sampson too,
Were stronger men than I or you;
Yet they were baffled by their dears,
And felt the distaff and the sheers.
Sae bide you yet, &c.

Stout gates of brass, and well-built walls,
Are proof 'gainst swords and cannon-balls;
But nought is found by sea or land,
That can a wayward wife withstand.
Sae bide you yet, &c.

BIDE YE YET.

THERE is a beautiful song to this tune, beginning,

Alas, my son, you little know

which is the composition of a Miss Jenny Graham of Dumfries.-BURNS.

ALAS! my son, you little know
The sorrows that from wedlock flow:
Farewell to every day of ease,
When you have gotten a wife to please.

Sae bide you yet, and bide you yet,'
Ye little ken what's to betide you yet;
The half of that will gane you yet,

If a wayward wife obtain you yet.

Your experience is but small,
As yet you've met with little thrall;
The black cow on your foot ne'er trod,
Which gars you sing alang the road.
Sae bide you yet, &c.

Sometimes the rock, sometimes the reel,
Or some piece of the spinning-wheel,
She will drive at you wi' good will,
And then she'll send you to the de'il.
Sue bide you yet, &c.

The particulars of this anecdote no where appear. The hero is supposed to be the same John M Lean, trumpet, who was sent from Lord Mar, then at Perth, with a letter to the Duke of Argyle, at Stirling camp, on the 30th of October. Viginal Letters 1730. Two copies, however, printed not long after 1715, read, "And trumpet Marine."

BIDE YE YET.

OLD SET.

GIN I had a wee house and a canty wee fire,
A bonny wee wifie to praise and admire,
Fareweel to the bodies that yammer and mourn.
A bonny wee yardie aside a wee burn;

Sae bide ye yet, and bide ye yet,
Ye little hen what may beţide ye yet,
Some bonny wee body may be my lot,
And I'll be canty wi' thinking o't.

When I gang afield, and come home at e'en,
I'll get my wee wife fou neat and fou clean;
And a bonny wee bairne upon her knee,
That will cry, papa, or daddy, to me.
Sae bide ye yet, &c.

And if there happen ever to be
A diff'rence atween my wee wife and me,
In hearty good humour, although she be tear,
I'll kiss her and clap her until she be pleas'd
Sae bide ye yet, &c.

THE ROCK AND THE WEE PICKLE TOW.

BY ALEXANDER ROSS.

THERE was an auld wife an' a wee pickle tow
An' she wad gae try the spinning o't,
She louted her down, an' her rock took a low,
And that was a bad beginning o't:

She sat an' she grat, an' she flet and she flang, An' she threw an' she blew, an' she wrigl'd an' wrang,

mang,

of Poetry in Scotland.

Did sic a mishap an' misanter befa' me,

set Maggy Grim beginzing o i,

draw me,

The neist time I try the spinning o't.

The spinning, the spinning it gars my heart sob,
When I think upo' the beginning o't,
I thought ere I died to have anes made a web,
But still I had weers o' the spinning o't.
But had I nine dathers, as I hae but three,
The safest and soundest advice I cud gee,
Is that they frae spinning wad keep their hands
free,

For fear of a bad beginning o't.

Yet in spite of my counsel if they will needs run
The drearysome risk of the spinning o't,
Let them seek out a lythe in the heat of the sun,
And there venture o' the beginning o't:
But to do as I did, alas, and awow!
To busk up a rock at the cheek of the low,
Says, that I had but little wit in my pow,
And as little ado with the spinning o't.

But yet after a', there is ae thing that grieves
My heart to think o' the beginning o't,
Had I won the length but of ae pair o' sleeves,
Then there had been word o' the spinning o't;
This I wad ha' washen an' bleech'd like the snaw,
And o' my twa gardies like moggans wad draw,
An' then fouk wad say, that auld Girzy was bra',
An' a' was upon her ain spinning o't.

But gin I wad shog about till a new spring,
I should yet hac a bout of the spinning o't,
A mutchkin of linseed I'd i' the yerd fling,
For a' the wan chansie beginning o't.
I'll gar my ain Tammie gae down to the how,
An' cut me a rock of a widdershines grow,

To labor the lint-land, an' then buy the seed,
An' then to yoke me to the harrowing o't,
An' syn loll amon't an' pike out ilka weed,
Like swine in a sty at the farrowing o't
Syn powing and ripling an' steeping, an' then
To gar's gae an' spread it upo' the cauld plain,
An' then after a' may be labor in vain,
When the wind and the weet gets the fusion o't.

But tho' it should anter the weather to byde,
Wi' beetles we're set to the drubbing o't,
An' then frae our fingers to gnidge aff the hide,
With the wearisome wark o' the rubbing o't.
An' syn ilka tait maun be heckl'd out throw,
The lint putten ae gate, anither the tow,
Syn on a rock wi't, an' it taks a low,
The back o' my hand to the spinning o't.

Quo' Jenny, I think 'oman ye're i' the right,
Set your feet ay a spar to the spinning o't,
We may tak our advice frae our ain mither':
fright

That she gat when she try'd the beginning o't.
But they'll say that auld fouk are twice bairns

An' now, poor 'oman, for ought that I ken,
She may never get sic an offer again,
But pine away bit an' bit, like Jenkin's hen,
An' naething to wyte but the spinning o't.

But were it for naething, but just this alane,
I shall yet hae about o' the spinning o't,
They may cast me for ca'ing me black at the
bean,

But nae cause I shun'd the beginning o't.
But, be that as it happens, I care not a strae,
But nane of the lads shall hae it to say,
When they come till woo, she kens naething

But we maun hae linen, an' that maun hae we, An' how get we that, but the spinning o't? How can we hae face for to seek a gryt fee, Except we can help at the winning o't?

First she drank crummie, and syne she drank garie;

Now she has druken my bonny grey marie, That carried me thro' a' the dubs and the larie O! gin, &c.

She has druken her stockins, sa has she her shoon,

And she has druken her bonny new gown; Her wee bit dud sark that co'erd her fu' rarely, O! gin, &c.

If she'd drink but her ain things I wad na much

care,

But she drinks my claiths I canna weel spare,
When I'm wi' my gossips, it angers me sairly,
O! gin, &c.

My Sunday's coat she's laid it a wad,
The best blue bonnet e'er was on my head;
At kirk and at market I'm cover'd but barely,
O! gin, &c.

The verra gray mittens that gaed on my han's,
To her neebor wife she has laid them in pawas;
My bane-headed staff that I lo'ed sae dearly,
O! gin, &c.

If there's ony siller, she maun keep the purse; If I seek but a baubee she'll scauld and she'll

curse,

cocks,

An' some other thing that the ladies ca' smoks,
An' how get we that, gin we tak na our rocks,
And pow what we can at the spinning o't?

'Tis needless for us for to tak our remarks
Frae our mither's miscooking the spinning o't,
She never kend ought o' the gueed of the sarks,
Frae this aback to the beginning o't.

Twa three ell of plaiden was a' that was sought By our auld warld bodies, an' that boot be bought,

For in ilka town sickan things was nae wrought, Sa little they kend o' the spinning o't.

HOOLY AND FAIRLY.

Ir is remark-worthy that the song of Hooly and Fairly, in all the old editions of it, is caled The Drunken Wife o' Galloway, which ocalizes it to that country.-BURNS.

THE DRUNKEN WIFE O' GALLOWAY.`:

OH! what had I to do for to marry?
My wife she drinks naething but sack and Ca-
nary,

I to her friends complain'd right early,
O! gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly,
Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly,
O gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly.

O! gin, &c.

THE OLD MAN'S SONG.

BY THE REV. J. SKINNer.

Tune-" Dumbarton Drums."

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 liv'd all our life-time 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 repin'd 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 cou'd spare,
When it pleas'd a kind Heaven to grant it.
But we always gave a share, &c.

We never laid a scheme to be wealthy,
By means that were cunning or stealthy;
But we always had the bliss,
(And what further could we wiss),
To be pleas'd with ourselves, and be healthy.
But we always had the bliss, &c.

What tho' 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 sleenies.
And these, I'm 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.

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. .toys-Grand-children,

In this house we first came together,

Where we've long been a father and mither;
And tho' not of stone and lime,

It will last us all our time;
And, I hope, we shall ne'er need anither.
And tho' 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.
Then 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.

TAK YOUR AULD CLOAK ABOUT YE.

A PART of this old song, according to the English set of it, is quoted in Shakspeare." BURNS.

In winter when the rain rain'd cauld,

And frost and snaw on ilka hill, And Boreas, with his blasts sae bauld,

Was threat'ning a' our ky to kill: Then Bell my wife, wha loves na strife, She said to me right hastily, Get up, goodman, save Cromy's life, And tak your auld cloak about ye.

My Cromie is an useful cow,

And she is come of a good kyne; Aft has she wet the bairns' mou, And I am laith that she shou'd tyne. Get up, goodman, it is fou time,

The sun shines in the lift sae hie; Sloth never made a gracious end,

Go tak your auld cloak about ye.

My cloak was anes a good grey cloak, When it was fitting for my wear; But now it's scantly worth a groat,

For I have worn't this thirty year; Let's spend the gear that we have won, We little ken the day we'll die : Then I'll be proud, since I have sworn To have a new cloak about me.

In the drinking scene in Othello: Iago sings,-
King Stephen was a worthy peer,

His breeches cost him but a crown;
He held them sixpence all too dear,
With that he called the tailor lown.
He was a wight of high renown,

And thou art but of low degree:
"Tis pride that pulls the country down,
Then take thine auld cloak about thee.

The old song from which these stanzas were taken was recovered by Dr. Percy, and preserved by him in his Reliques of Ancient Poetry.