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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 days when our king Robert rang,
His trews they cost but haff a crown; He said they were a groat o'er dear,
And call'd the taylor thief and loun. He was the king that wore a crown,
And thou the man of laigh degree, 'Tis pride puts a' the country down,
Sae tak thy auld cloak about thee.
Every land has its ain laugh,
Ilk kind of corn it has its hool, I think the warld is a' run wrang,
When ilka wife her man wad rule ;
Do ye not see Rob, Jock, and Hab,
As they are girded gallantly, While I sit hurklen in the
I'll have a new cloak about me.
Goodman, I wate 'tis thirty years,
Since we did ane anither ken; And we have had between us twa,
Of lads and bonny lasses ten: Now they are women grown
men, I wish and pray well may they be; And if you prove a good husband, E’en tak your auld cloak about
Bell my wife, she loves na strife;
But she was guide me, if she can, And to maintain an easy life,
I aft maun yield, tho' I'm goodman : Nought's to be won at woman's hand,
Unless ye give her a' the plea; Then I'll leave aff where I began,
And tak my auld cloak about me.
RATTLIN, ROARIN WILLIE.
The last stanza of this song is mine; it was composed out of compliment to one of the worthiest fellows in the world, William Dunbar, Esq. Writer to the signet, Edinburgh, and Colonel of the Crochallan corps, a club of wits who took that title at the time of raising the fencible regiments.
O rattlin, roarin Willie,
O he held to the fair,
And buy some ither ware;
The saut tear blint his ee;
Ye're welcome hame to me.
O Willie, come sell your fiddle,
fiddle sae fine;
The warl wou'd think I was mad,
My fiddle and I hae had!
As I cam by Crochallan,
I cannilie keekit ben,
Was sitting at yon boord-en';
And amang guid companie;
Ye're welcome hame to me!
WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS.
This song I composed on one of the most accomplished of women, Miss Peggy Chalmers that was, now Mrs. Lewis Hay, of Forbes and Co's bank, Edinburgh.
Tune-NIEL Gow's LAMENTATION FOR ABERCAIRNEY.
Where braving angry winter's storms,
The lofty Ochels rise,
First blest my wandering eyes.
* The different publications which have appeared under the name of Neil Gow, and which contain not only his sets of the older tunes, but various occasional airs of his own composition,
As one who by some savage stream,
A lonely gem surveys,
With art's most polish'd blaze.
Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade,
And blest the day and hour,
When first I felt their pow'r!
The tyrant death with grim controul,
May seize my fleeting breath,
Must be a stronger death.
for instance, his “ Lamentation for Abercairney,” and “ LochErroch-side,” are striking specimens of his genius, feeling, and power of embellishment. These were set and prepared for publication, by his son Nathaniel ; whose respectable character, and propriety of conduct, have long secured him the esteem and favour of the public; and whose knowledge of composition, and variety of talent in the art, joined with the greatest refinemeut of taste, elegance of expression, and power of execution, render him (beyond all dispute) the most accomplished and successful performer of Scottish music in general, ever produced by this country.”
Scots Mag. Jan. 1809.