THE WIDOW.

The widow can bake, and the widow can brew,
The widow can shape, and the widow can sew,
And mony braw things the widow can do ;
Then have at the widow, my laddie.
With courage attack her, baith early and late,
To kiss her and clap her you manna be blate,
Speak well, and do better, for that's the best gate
To win a young widow, my laddie.

The widow she's youthfu', and never ae hair
The waur for the wearing, and has a good skair
Of every thing lovely, she's witty and fair,

And has a rich jointure, my laddie.

What cou'd you wish better your pleasure to crown,
Than a widow, the bonniest toast in the town,
With naething, but draw in your stool and sit down,
And sport with the widow, my laddie?

Then till 'er, and kill 'er with courtesie dead, Though stark love and kindness be all ye can plead; Be heartsome and airy, and hope to succeed

With a bonny gay widow, my laddie.

Strike iron while 'tis het, if ye'd have it to wald,
For fortune ay favours the active and bauld,
But ruins the wooer that's thowless and cauld,

Unfit for the widow, my laddie.

There was once an old free song, the burthen of which gives a name to the air to which this song is sung, called

66

Wap at the widow, my laddie." Allan Ramsay infused a more modest spirit through it, without lessening its unobjectionable attractions; and the song thus renovated in a purer, but still a very free taste, keeps hold of public favour. We have many rude rhymes, and still ruder proverbs, expressive of the ease with which the scruples of a rosy young widow are vanquished; but the song itself says quite enough, and I shall not illustrate the plain and simple text by either rhyme or proverb.

WIDOW, ARE YE WAUKIN?

O wha's that at my chamber-door?
Fair widow, are ye wauking?
Auld carle, your suit give o'er,

Your love lies a' in tauking.

Gi'e me a lad that's young

and tight,

Sweet like an April meadow; 'Tis sic as he can bless the sight And bosom of a widow.

O widow, wilt thou let me in,

I'm pawky, wise, and thrifty,

And come of a right gentle kin,
I'm little mair than fifty.
Daft carle, dit your mouth,
What signifies how pawky,
Or gentle-born ye be,-bot youth?
In love you're but a gawky.

Then, widow, let these guineas speak,
That powerfully plead clinkan,
And if they fail, my mouth I'll steek,
And nae mair love will think on.
These court indeed, I maun confess,
I think they make you young, Sir,
And ten times better can express

Affection, than your tongue, Sir.

In ancient times, an old man assuming the vivacity of youth, and making love to the fair and the blooming, was a prime subject for lyrical mirth; and many a side has been agreeably shaken by the wit and the humour which such a circumstance excited. This is a matter which seems to have afforded Allan Ramsay abundance of amusement, and his poetry bears token in many places that he thought such an unnatural scene as gray age and blooming youth presented was worthy of satire. But he has given to gold the eloquence which I am afraid it will be often found to possess: the stories of those who live in misery, but who dine in silver, might fill a volume. Ramsay found a witty and indelicate old ditty called "Widow, are ye wakin,” and

speculating on the idea which it gave, produced this very lively and pleasant song. He calls it "The auld Man's best Argument"—a witty title-but I have chosen to abide by that which gives a name to the air.

THE BRAES OF YARROW.

Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,

And let us leave the braes of Yarrow.

Where got ye that bonny bonny bride,
Where got ye that winsome marrow?
I got her where I durst not well be seen,
Puing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.

Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride,
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow,
Nor let thy heart lament to leave

Puing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.

Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride?
Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow?
And why dare ye nae mair well be seen
Puing the birks on the braes of Yarrow?

Lang must she weep, lang must she, must she weep,

Lang must she weep with dole and sorrow,

And lang must I nae mair well be seen,

Puing the birks on the braes of Yarrow.

For she has tint her lover, lover dear,
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow;
And I have slain the comeliest swain,
That ever pu'd birks on the braes of Yarrow.

Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red?
Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow,
And why yon melancholious weeds,

Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow?

What's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful flood?
What's yonder floats? O dole and sorrow!

O'tis the comely swain I slew

Upon the doleful braes of Yarrow.

Wash, O wash his wounds, his wounds in tears,

His wounds in tears of dole and sorrow,

And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds,

And lay him on the braes of Yarrow.

Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad,
Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow,

And

weep around in woeful wise, His helpless fate on the braes of Yarrow.

VOL. III.

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