IT fell about the Martinmas time,

And a gay time it was than,

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

The wind sae cauld blew east and north,

It blew into the floor

:

Quoth our gudeman to our gudewife,

"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 barr'd 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 the first word whae'er shou'd speak
Shou'd rise 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'.

Then said the one unto the other,
66 Here, man, tak' ye my knife;
Do ye tak' aff the auld man's beard,
And I'll kiss the gudewife."

"But there's nae water in the house,
And what shall we do than?"
"What ails ye at the puddin' broo
That boils into the pan ?"

Oh, up then started our gudeman,
And an angry man was he :
"Will ye kiss my wife before my een,
And scad me wi' pudding bree?"

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."

OH, AN YE WERE DEID, GUDEMAN.

From Herd's Collection, 1776.

Он, an ye were deid, gudeman,

And a green turf on your heid, gudeman,
That I micht ware my widowheid
Upon a rantin' Highlandman.

There's sax eggs in the pan, gudeman,
There's sax eggs in the pan, gudeman;
There's ane to you and twa to me,
An' three to our John Highlandman.

There's beef into the pot, gudeman,
There's beef into the pot, gudeman ;
The banes for you, and the broe for me,
And the beef for our John Highlandman.

There's sax horse in the sta', gudeman,
There's sax horse in the sta', gudeman;
There's ane to you, and twa to me,
And three to our John Highlandman.

There's sax kye in the byre, gudeman,
There's sax kye in the byre, gudeman;

There's ane o' them yours, but there's twa o' them mine,
And the lave is our John Highlandman's.

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."

Оí, 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 her-
Oh, gin I were fairly shot o' her!

Nane o' her relations or friends could stay wi' her;
The neebours and bairns are 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 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 blythe 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.

WHA wadna be in love

Wi' bonnie Maggie Lauder?

A piper met her gaun to Fife,

And speir'd what wast 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?