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O fy gar ride, and fy gar rin,
And haste ye find these traytors again;
For she's be burnt, and he's be slain,

The wearifu' Gaberlunzie-man.
Some rade upo' horse, some ran a fit,
The wife was wood, and out o’her wit:
She cou'd na gang, nor yet cou'd she sit,

she curs’d and she ban'd.

Mean time far hind out o'er the lea,

snug in a glen, where nane cou'd see, The twa, with kindly sport and glee,

Cut frae a new cheese a whang :
The priving was good, it pleas'd them baith,
To lo'e her for ay, he gae her his aith;
Quo' she, to leave thee I will be laith,

My winsome Gaberlunzie-man.

O kend my minny I were wi' you,
[llsardly wad she crook her mou,
Sic a poor man she'd never trow,

After the Gaberlunzie-man.
My dear, quo' he, ye're yet o'er young,
And ha' na lear'd the beggar's tongue,
To follow me frae town to town,

And carry the Gaberlunzie on.

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Wi' cauk and keel I'll win your bread,
And spindles and whorles for them wha need,
Whilk is a gentle trade indeed,

To carry the Gaberlunzie-O.
I'll bow my leg, and crook my knee,
And draw a black clout o'er my eye,
A cripple or blind they will ca' me,

While we shall be merry and sing.


This air is Oswald's; the first half-stanza of the song is old, the rest mine.

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,

An' fill it in a silver tassie;
That I may drink before I go,

A service to my bonnie lassie;
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith;

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry;

* This song, which Burns here acknowledges to be his own, was first introduced by him in a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, as two old stanzas,

The ship rides by the Berwick-law,
And I maun


bonnie Mary

The trumpets sound, the banners fly,

The glittering spears are ranked ready;
The shouts o' war are heard afar,

The battle closes thick and bloody;
But it's not the roar o sea or shore

Wad make me langer wish to tarry;
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar,

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.


This song is by Dr. Fordyce, whose merits as a prose writer are well known.


This air is Oswald's; the song mine.


This song is mine.

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill,
Concealing the course of the dark-winding rill;
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear,
As autumn to winter resigns the pale year.
The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown,
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown :
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse
How quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues.

How long I have liv’d—but how much liv'd in vain ;
How little of life's scanty span may remain :
What aspects, old time, in his progress, has worn;
What ties, cruel fate, in my bosom has torn.
How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd!
And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how

pain'd! Life is not worth having, with all it can give ; For something beyond it poor man sure must live.


This satirical song was composed to commemorate General Cope's defeat at Preston Pans, in 1745, when he marched against the Clans.

The air was the tune of an old song, of which I have heard some verses, but now only remember the title, which was,

Will ye go to the coals in the morning,


Cope sent a challenge from Dunbar,
Saying, sir, come fight me, if you dare,
If it be not by the chance of war,
I'll catch you all in the morning.

Charlie look'd the letter upon,
He drew his sword his scabbard from,
Saying, Come follow me, my merry men,
And we'll visit Cope in the morning.

My merry men, come follow me,
For now's the time I'll let you see,

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