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THE BARRING O' THE DOOR.

From Herd's Collection. The song is sung to an English tune called "An old woman clothed in grey."

IT fell about the Martinmas time,

And a gay time it was than,

When our gudewife got puddings to mak',
And she boiled them in the pan.

The wind sae cauld blew east and north,

It blew into the floor;

Quoth our gudeman to our gude wife,
"Gae out and bar the door."

"My hand is in my hussy'f skap,

Gudeman, as ye may see;

An' it shou'd nae be barred this hundred year,
It's no be barr'd for me."

They made a paction 'tween them twa,
They made it firm and sure,

That whae'er should speak the foremost word
Shou'd get up and bar the door.

Then by there came twa gentlemen

At twelve o'clock at night,

And they could neither see house nor hall,

Nor coal nor candle light.

Now whether is this a rich man's house,

Or whether is it a poor?

But never a word wad ane o' them speak,
For barring o' the door.

And first they ate the white puddings,

And then they ate the black;

Though muckle thought the gudewife to hersel',
Yet ne'er a word she spak'.

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Then up and started our gudewife,

Gied three skips on the floor:

"Gudeman, ye've spoken the foremost word,-
Get up and bar the door."

This song was first printed by David Herd, who wrote it down from a traditionary version. It is generally sung with the following lines as a chorus:

"Oh, the barring of our door,

Weel, weel, weel;

And the barring of our door, weel."

THE DUSTY MILLER.

From "Johnson's Museum," 1782.

HEY, the dusty miller
And his dusty coat;
He will win a shilling

Ere he spend a groat.

Dusty was the coat,
Dusty was the colour;
Dusty was the kiss

That I gat frae the miller.

Hey, the dusty miller,
And his dusty sack;
Leeze me on the calling
Fills the dusty peck,—
Fills the dusty peck,

Brings the dusty siller
I wad gi'e my coatie
For the dusty miller.

FAIRLY SHOT OF HER.
From" Johnson's Museum."

OH, gin I were fairly shot o' her,
Fairly, fairly, fairly shot o' her!
Oh, gin I were fairly shot o' her!

If she were dead, I wad dance on the top o' her.

Till we were married I couldna see licht till her;
For a month after a' thing aye gaed richt wi' her;
But these ten years I hae pray'd for a wright to ber—
Oh. gin I were fairly shot o' her!

Nane o' her relations or friends could stay wi' her;
The neebours and bairns are a' fain to flee frae her;
And I my ain sel' am forced to gi'e way till her—
Oh, gin I were fairly shot o' her!

She gangs aye sae braw, she's sae muckle pride in her;
There's no a gudewife in the haill country-side like till her;
Wi' dress and wi' drink, the deil wadna bide wi' her—
Oh, gin I were fairly shot o' her!

If the time were but come that to the kirk-gate wi’ her,
And into the yird I'd mak' mysel' quit o' her,

I'd then be as bly the as first when I met wi' her-
Oh, gin I were fairly shot o' her!

This is a modern version of an old song, and is said to have been written by one John Anderson, at that time apprentice to Johnson the engraver, and publisher of the "Museum," where the song first appeared.

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WHA wadna be in love

Wi' bonnie Maggie Lauder?

A piper met her gaun to Fife,

And speir'd what was't they ca'd her. Right scornfully she answer'd him, Begone, you hallanshaker!

Jog on your gate, you bladderskate!
My name is Maggie Lauder.

Maggie, quo' he, and by my bags,
I'm fidgin' fain to see thee;
Sit down by me, my bonnie bird,
In troth I winna steer thee;
For I'm a piper to my trade,

My name is Rob the Ranter;
The lasses loup as they were daft
When I blaw up my chanter.

Piper, quo' Meg, hae ye your bags,
Or is your drone in order?
If ye be Rob, I've heard of you,—
Live you upo' the Border?

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The lasses a', baith far and near,

Hae heard o' Rob the Ranter;

I'll shake my foot with right gude will,
Gif you'll blaw up your chanter.

Then to his bags he flew wi' speed,
About the drone he twisted;
Meg up and wallop'd o'er the green,
For brawly could she frisk it.
Weel done! quo' he-Play up! quo' she;
Weel bobb'd! quo' Rob the Ranter;
'Tis worth my while to play indeed
When I hae sic a dancer.

Weel hae you play'd your part, quo' Meg;
Your cheeks are like the crimson;
There's nane in Scotland plays sae weel
Since we lost Habbie Simpson.

I've lived in Fife, baith maid and wife,
These ten years and a quarter;
Gin' ye should come to Anster fair,
Speir ye for Maggie Lauder.

"This old song," says Burns, "so pregnant with Scottish naïveté and energy, is much relished by all ranks. Its language is a precious model of imitation,—sly, sprightly, and forcibly expressive. Maggie's tongue wags out the nick-names of Rob the piper with all the careless lightsomeness of unrestrained gaiety."

KISSING'S NO SIN.

ANONYMOUS.

Seventeenth or eighteenth century.

SOME say that kissing's a sin;
But I think it's nane ava,

For kissing has wonn'd in this warld

Since ever that there was twa.

Oh, if it wasna lawfu',

Lawyers wadna allow it;

If it wasna holy,

Ministers wadna do it.

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