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But still thro’ life we'll happy be, at fate ne'er repine; Tho' warldly cares, at times, should thraw, we'll ne'er

our pleasures tyne; While seated here, in frien’ly glow, wi' hearts an' han's

we join, And bring again, wi' cantie glee, the days o' langsyne.

While seated here, &c. *

To anger

TUNE_" The Mucking o' Geordie's Byre.
My heart is a-breaking, dear tittie,
Some counsel unto me come len';

them a' is a pity,
But what will I do wi' Tam Glen ?
I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fallow,

In poortith I might mak a fen';
What care I in riches to wallow,

If I mauna marry Tam Glen.
There's Lowrie, the laird o' Drummeller,

Gude-day to you,” brute, he comes ben;
He brags, and he blaws o' his siller,

But whan will he dance like Tam Glen?
My minnie does constantly deave me,

And bids me beware o' young men;
They flatter, she says, to deceive me;

But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen?

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him,

He'll gie me gude hunder marks ten;

* This song is the production of a Mechanic in Glasgow, who is also the author of Scotia's Sons, The Coggie, and several other pieces of considerable merit. Some of them will be found in our subsequent pages.

But if it's ordain'd I maun take him,

O wha will I get but Tam Glen? Yestreen at the valentines dealing,

My heart to my mou' gied a sten, For thrice I drew ane without failing,

And thrice it was written, Tam Glen. The last Hallowe'en I was waukin',

My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken, His likeness cam up the house staukin,

And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen. Come counsel, dear tittie, don't tarry ;

I'll gie you my bonnie black hen, Gif ye will advise me to marry

The lad I loo dearly, Tam Glen.


THE bonnie brucket lassie,

She's blue beneath the een;
She was the fairest lassie

That danc'd on the green.
A lad he loo'd her dearly,

She did his love return;
But he his vows has broken,

And left her for to mourn.

My shape, she says, was handsome,

My face was fair and clean;
But now I'm bonnie brucket,

And blue beneath the een.
My eyes were bright and sparkling,

Before that they turn'd blue;
But now they're dull with weeping,
And a', my love, for you.

My person it was comely,

My shape they said was neat;
But now I am quite changed,

My stays they winna meet.
A’ night I sleeped soundly,

My mind was never sad;
But now my rest is broken,

Wi’ thinking o' my lad.
O could I live in darkness,

Or hide me in the sea,
Since my love is unfaithful,

And has forsaken me!
No other love I suffer'd

Within my breast to dwell;
In nought I have offended

But loving him too well.
Her lover heard her mourning,

As by he chanc'd to pass;
And press’d unto his bosom

The lovely brucket lass.
My dear, he said, cease grieving;

Since that your love's so true,
My bonnie brucket lassie,

I'll faithful prove to you. * “ The two first lines of this song are all of it that is old. The rest of the song, as well as those songs in the Museum (Johnson's) marked T, are the works of an obscure, tippling, but extraordinary body of the name of Tytler, commonly known by the name of Balloon Tytler, from his having projected a fire balloon: a mortal who, though he trudges about Edinburgh as a common Printer, with leaky shoes, a sky-lighted hat, and kneebuckles [as unlike each other as a rush cap and a diadem;) yet that same unknown drunken mortal is author and compiler of three-fourths of Elliot's pompous Encyclopedia Britannica, which he composed at half-a-guinea a-week!”

Up in the morning's no for me,

Up in the morning early;
When a the hills are cover'd wi' snaw,

I'm sure it's winter fairly.
Cold blaws the wind frae east to west,

The drift is driving sairly;
Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast,
I'm sure it's winter fairly.

Up in the morning, fc.
The birds sit chittering in the thorn,

A' day they fare but sparely;
And lang's the night frae e'en to morn,
I'm sure it's winter fairly.

Up in the morning, &c.

Oh had I a house and a cantie wee fire,
A bonnie wee wifie to praise and admire;
A bonnie wee yardie aside a wee burn,
Fareweel to the bodies that yamer and mourn.

And bide ye yet, and bide ye yet,
Ye little ken what may betide you yet;
Some bonnie wee bodie may fa' to my lot,

And I'll ay be cantie wi thinking o't. When I gang afield, and come hame at e'en, I'll get my wee wifie fou neat and fou clean; And a bonnie wee bairnie upon her knee, That'll cry papa or daddie to me.

And bide ye yet, &c. I carena a button for sack fu's o' cash; Let wizen'd auld batchelors think on sic trash;

Gie me my dear lassie to sit on my knee,
A kiss o' her mou' is worth thousan's to me.

And bide ye yet, fc.
And if there ever should happen to be
A difference atween my wee wifie and me;
In hearty good humour although she be teaz'd,
I'll kiss her and clap her until she be pleas’d.

And bide ye yet, fc.

Shou'd auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to min',
Shou'd auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' langsyne.
For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld langsyne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld langsyne.
We twa hae run about the braes,

And pu'd the gowans fine;
But we've wander'd monie a wearie foot
Sin' auld langsyne.

For auld langsyne, &c.
We twa hae paidel't i' the burn,

Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar'd
Sin' auld langsyne.

For auld langsyne, fc.
Now there's a hand, my trusty fiere,

And gies a hand o' thine,
And we'll tak a right gude willie waught
For auld langsyne.

For auld langsyne, &c.

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