The youngest dochter ga'e a shout, Ye lie, ye limmers! cries auld Mump, Aweel, says Peg, that pauky slut, That you shall have a snishing. The auld ane did agree to that, Braw sport it was to see her chow't, And 'tween her gums sae squeeze and row't, While frae her jaws the slaver flow'd, And ay she curs'd poor stumpy. At last she gae a desperate squeeze, And syne poor stumpy was at ease, But she tint hopes of snishing. She of the task began to tire, And frae her dochters did retire, Ye auld wives, notice well this truth, And leave aff thoughts of snishing: A young man with your snishing. There can be little doubt that the "Auld Wife beyont the fire" has been "pruned and starched and lander'd" by Allan Ramsay; he marks it in his collection as an old song with corrections: and any one who compares the corrected songs of Ramsay with the old verses which survive in their original state will conclude that he has striven to purify the ancient song, which perhaps spoke a plainer and less mystical language. The note which he has found it necessary to add as a supplement to the text shows the embarrassment of the bard, for he explains "snishing," about which the old dame is so ludicrously clamorous, to mean, sometimes contentment, a husband, love, money, and, literally, snuff. Was there ever such allegorical confusion any where seen, except in some of our national monuments? It has its use; it gives the more prudent reader an opportunity of escaping from a moral scruple, through the open door of any favourite figure of speech. SWEET SUSAN. The morn was fair, saft was the air, How sweet her face, where ev'ry grace That nae perfection wanted. Yet though she's fair, and has full share Each good turns ill, and soon will kill Poor me, if love be wanting. O bonny lass! have but the grace To think, e'er ye gae furder, My wand'ring ghaist will ne'er get rest, Our years around with love thus crown'd, O sweetest Sue! 'tis only you' If equal love your mind can move Thou art my sun, and thy least frown Would blast me in the blossom: I'll flourish in thy bosom. I have no better authority than tradition for ascribing this song to the pen of William Crawford. It was printed in Allan Ramsay's collection without any token of age or author; and though a pretty song, it is far inferior to the ancient song of "Leader Haughs and Yarrow," which seems to have suggested it. I am afraid that few ladies have an imagination so sensitive as to be alarmed into love and matrimony with the terror of a visitation from their lover's ghost; and that a lover who reinforces his persuasions with threats of self-destruction, if the lady continues cruel, is in a fair way of becoming a subject for the sheriff's examination, if there be any sincerity in his nature. baint tvoj dawbrid stay titul If love's a sweet passion, why does it torment? I grasp her hands gently, look languishing down, How pleasing her beauty! how sweet are her charms! How fond her embraces! how peaceful her arms! Sure there is nothing so easy as learning to love, "Tis taught us on earth, and by all things above: 1 |