The warly race may riches chase,
And riches still may fly them 0;
An' though at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them 0.

Founded on an old and licentious song with the same chorus.

THE OLD MAN'S SONG.

REV. JOHN SKINNER. Air-"Dumbarton's drums."

Oн, why should old age so much wound us O?
There is nothing in't all to confound us 0;
For how happy am I,

With my old wife sitting by,

And our bairns and our oes all around us O!

We began in the world wi' naething O,

And we've jogg'd on and toil'd for the ae thing 0; We made use of what we had,

And our thankful hearts were glad

When we got the bit meat and the claething O.

We have lived all our lifetime contented O, Since the day we became first acquainted 0; It's true we've been but poor,

And we are so to this hour,

Yet we never pined nor lamented 0.

We ne'er thought of schemes to be wealthy O,
By ways that were cunning or stealthy 0;
But we always had the bliss,

And what further could we wiss?

To be pleased with ourselves and be healthy O.

What though we canna boast of our guineas 0,
We have plenty of Jockies and Jeanies O;
And these I am certain are

More desirable by far

Than a pock full of yellow steenies O.

We've seen many a wonder and ferly O,
Of changes that almost are yearly 0,
Among rich folk up and down,

Both in country and in town,

Who now live but scrimply and barely 0.

Then why should people brag of prosperity O? A straiten'd life we see is no rarity 0;

Indeed, we've been in want,

And our living been but scant,

Yet we never were reduced to need charity O.

In this house we first came thegither O,
Where we've long been a father and mither 0;
And though not of stone and lime,

It will last us a' our time,

And I hope we shall never need anither O.

JENNY'S BAWBEE.

SIR ALEX. BOSWELL, Bart.

I MET four chaps yon birks amang,
Wi' hinging lugs and faces lang;
I speer'd at neebour Bauldy Strang,
Wha's thae I see?

Quo' he, ilk cream-faced pawky chiel
Thought he was cuning as the deil,
And here they cam' awa to steal
Jenny's bawbee.

The first, a captain to his trade,
Wi' skull ill-lined, but back weel-clad,
March'd round the barn and by the shed,
And papp'd on his knee:

Quo' he, "My goddess, nymph, and queen,
Your beauty's dazzled baith my een!"
But deil a beauty he had seen
But-Jenny's bawbee.

A lawyer neist, wi' blatherin' gab,
Wha speeches wove like ony wab,
In ilk ane's corn aye took a dab,
And a' for a fee.

Accounts he own'd through a' the town,

And tradesmen's tongues nae mair could drown, But now he thought to clout his gown

Wi' Jenny's bawbee.

A Norland laird neist trotted up,

Wi' bawsend nag and siller whup,

66

Cried, There's my beast, lad, haud the grup,

Or tie't till a tree :

What's gowd to me? I've walth o' lan';

Bestow on ane o' worth your han'."
He thought to pay what he was awn
Wi' Jenny's bawbee.

Drest up just like the knave o' clubs,
A thing came neist (but life has rubs),
Foul were the roads, and fu' the dubs,
And jaupit a' was he :

He danced up squinting through a glass,
And grinn'd, "I' faith a bonny lass!"
He thought to win wi' front o' brass
Jenny's bawbee.

She bade the laird gae kame his wig,
The soger no to strut sae big,

The lawyer no to be a prig;

The fool he cried, "Tehee!

I kenn'd that I could never fail !"

But she prenn'd the dishclout to his tail,
And soused him in the water-pail,

And kept her bawbee.

This song was contributed by its unfortunate author to Thomson's "Select Melodies of Scotland." Sir Alexander was the son of James Boswell, whose inimitable "Life of Dr. Johnson" has conferred a peculiar immortality upon his name. He was unfortunately killed in 1822, by Mr. James Stuart of Dunearn, in a duel arising out of a literary squabble in the "Sentinel," a Glasgow newspaper, to which Sir Alexander had contributed a "Whig song, supposed to be written by one of the Jameses, certainly not by King James the First or King James the Fifth, but probably by one of the house of Stuart." The song was very scurrilous, and reflected on the honour of Mr. Stuart. In after life Mr. Stuart became editor of the London "Courier," and an Inspector of Mills and Factories.

JENNY'S BAWBIE.

Oldest version, upon which the preceding was founded by SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL.

AN' a' that e'er my Jenny had,

My Jenny had, my Jenny had,
An' a' that e'er my Jenny had,
Was ae bawbie.

There's your plack and my plack,
An' your plack an' my plack,
An' my plack an' your plack,
And Jenny's bawbie.

We'll put it a' in the pint-stoup,
The pint-stoup, the pint-stoup,
We'll put it in the pint-stoup,
And boile it a' three.

JENNY DANG THE WEAVER.

SIR A. BOSWELL, Bart.

AT Willie's wedding an the green,
The lasses, bonnie witches,
Were a' dress'd out in aprons clean,

And braw white Sunday mutches:
Auld Maggie bad the lads tak' tent,
But Jock would not believe her;
But soon the fool his folly kent,
For Jenny dang the weaver.
And Jenny dang, Jenny dang,
Jenny dang the weaver;
But soon the fool his folly kent,
For Jenny dang the weaver.

At ilka country-dance or reel
Wi' her he would be babbing;
When she sat down he sat down,
And to her would be gabbing:
Where'er she gaed, baith but and ben,
The coof would never leave her,
Aye kecklin' like a clacking hen;
But Jenny dang the weaver.
Jenny dang, &c.

Quo' he, My lass, to speak my mind
In troth I needna swither;

You've bonnie een, and if you're kind,

I'll never seek anither.

He humm'd and haw'd; the lass cried, Peugh!
And bade the coof no deave her;

Syne snapt her fingers, lap and leugh,
And dang the silly weaver.

And Jenny dang, &c.