TUNE

THE COGGIE.

Cauld kail in Aberdeen."

WHEN poortith cauld, and sour disdain,
Hang o'er life's vale sae foggie,
The sun that brightens up the scene,
Is friendship's kindly coggie.

Then, O revere the coggie, sirs,
The friendly, social coggie;
It gars the wheels o' life run light,
Tho' e'er sae doilt and cloggie.

Let pride in fortune's chariots fly,
Sae empty, vain, and vogie;
The source of wit, the spring of joy,
Lies in the social coggie.

Then, O revere the coggie, sirs,

The independent coggie;

And never snool beneath the frown
Of onie selfish roggie.

Poor modest worth, with heartless ee,

Sits hurkling in the boggie,

Till she asserts her dignity,

By virtue of the coggie.

Then, O revere the coggie, sirs,
The poor man's patron coggie;
It warsels care, it fights life's faughts,
And lifts him frae the boggie.

Gie feckless Spain her weak snail broo,
Gie France her weel spic'd froggie,
Gie brother John his luncheon too,
But gie to us our coggie.

Then, O revere the coggie, sirs,
Our soul-warm kindred coggie;
Hearts doubly knit in social tie,
When just a wee thought groggie.
Bb

In days of yore our sturdy sires,
Upon their hills sae scroggie,

Glow'd with true freedom's warmest fires,
And fought to save their coggie.

Then, O revere the coggie, sirs,
Our brave forefathers' coggie;
It rous'd them up to doughty deeds,
O'er which we'll lang be voggie.

Then, here's may Scotland ne'er fa' down,
A cringing coward doggie,

But bauldly stand, and bang the loon
Wha'd reave her of her coggie.
Then, O protect the coggie, sirs,
Our good auld mother's coggie;
Nor let her luggie e'er be drain'd
By ony foreign roggie.

RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING.

TUNE-" M'Gregor of Rero's lament.”

RAVING Winds around her blowing,
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing,
By a river hoarsely roaring,

Isabella stray'd deploring:

"Farewell, hours that late did measure
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure;
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow,
Cheerless night, that knows no morrow!

O'er the past too fondly wandering,
On the hopeless future pondering;
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes,
Fell despair my fancy seizes.

Life, thou soul of every blessing,
Load, to misery most distressing,
O how gladly I'd resign thee,
And to dark oblivion join thee !" *

THE LASS O' NETHERLEE.

Auld farran' cantie bodie,
Cam ye frae the Netherlee?
Auld farran' cantie bodie,

Did ye there my lassie see?

KIND, an' blythe, an' sweet as onie,
Fairer never can ye see;
In face an' form my lassie's bonnie,
Dimpl'd love sits in her ee.
Auld farran', &c.

Hair like the mornin's gouden beam,
On the tapmaist mountain hie;
An' oh! whan dress'd in tartan sheen,
Beauty's power is ill to dree.

Auld farran', &c.

Her lips wad mak the cherry blush
Deeper red-tho' red it be;

An' weel like I the dew to brush
Frae her lips sae sweet an' wee.
Auld farran', &c.

"I composed these verses on Miss Isabella M'Leod of Raza, alluding to her feelings on the death of her sister, and the still more melancholy death of her sister's husband, the late Earl of Loudon; who shot himself, out of sheer heart-break at some mortifications he suffered, owing to the deranged state of his finances."-Burns.

But sawna ye the lassie then,
Thro' the wood or owre the lea?
Tho' ye're the wale o' cantiest men,
To seek her quickly maun I flee.
Fare ye weel then funnie bodie,
Whan ye ca' 't the Netherlee,
Spier for me auld farran' bodie,
Then the lassie dear ye'll see.

*

་་་་་་་་་་་

CROMLET'S LILT.

SINCE all thy vows, false maid,
Are blown to air,
And my poor heart betray'd
To sad despair;
Into some wilderness,

My grief I will express,

And thy hard heartedness,

O cruel fair.

Have I not graven our loves
On ev'ry tree,

In yonder spreading groves,
Tho' false thou be?

Was not a solemn oath
Plighted betwixt us both?
Thou thy faith, I my troth,
Constant to be.

Some gloomy place I'll find,

Some doleful shade,

Where neither sun nor wind

E'er entrance had:

* By the author of Fair Helen. Netherlee is about four miles

S. W. of Glasgow.

Into that hollow cave,
There will I sigh and rave,
Because thou dost behave
So faithlessly.

Wild fruit shall be my meat,
I'll drink the spring,
Cold earth shall be my seat:
For covering,

I'll have the starry sky
My head to canopy,
Until my soul on high

Shall spread its wing.

I'll have no funeral fire,
Nor tears for me;

No grave do I desire,
Nor obsequie.

The courteous red-breast he,

With leaves will cover me,

And sing my elegy,

With doleful voice.

And when a ghost I am,

I'll visit thee,

O thou deceitful dame,
Whose cruelty

Has kill'd the kindest heart,
That e'er felt Cupid's dart,
And never can desert

From loving thee. *

* The following interesting account of this plaintive dirge is from the pen of ALEXANDER FRAZER TYTLER, Esq. of Woodhouselee." In the latter end of the 16th century, the Chisholms were proprietors of the estate of Cromlecks (now possessed by the Drummonds). The eldest son of that family was very much attached to a daughter of Sterling of Ardoch, common