Behind the door a bag of meal, And in the kist was plenty Of good hard cakes his mither bakes, A good fat sow, a sleeky cow Whilst lazy puss, with mealy mous, Good signs are these, my mither says, For foul day and fair day He's aye bringing till her: For meal and malt she does na want, In winter, when the wind and rain With nut-brown ale he tells his tale, This song originally appeared in the "Charmer" without the concluding stanza. It was afterwards added by the author, at that time one of the Scottish judges. ARGYLL IS MY NAME. JOHN Duke of Argyll and Greenwich, born 1680, died 1743. ARGYLL is my name, and you may think it strange A' falsehood and flattery I do disdain, In my secret thoughts nae guile does remain. n Adieu to the courtie of London town, Where a' the braw lasses, wha ken me weel, I will quickly lay down my sword and my gun, I'll buy a rich garment to gi'e to my dear, Gin Maggie should chance to bring me a son, Wi' our feasting on bannocks o' barley meal. Then fare ye weel, citizens, noisy men, And nae langer will live in hurry and strife; I'll aff to the Highlands as hard's I can reel, And whang at the bannocks o' barley meal. This song is generally attributed to the celebrated Duke of Argyll, but the statement does not appear to rest on sufficient authority. There is no doubt, however, that it was written of, if not by him. ALLAN RAMSAY. Air-"Fie, gar rub her ower wi' strae." GIN ye meet a bonnie lassie, Gi'e her a kiss and let her gae; But if ye meet a dirty hizzie, Of ilka joy when ye are young, And lay ye twa-fauld ower a rung. Sweet youth's a blythe and heartsome time: Before it wither and decay. When Jenny speaks below her breath, And kisses, layin' a' the wyte On you if she kep ony skaith. Haith, ye're ill-bred, she'll smilin' say, And hide hersel' in some dark neuk. Now to her heavin' bosom cling, These benisons, I'm very sure, Are of kind heaven's indulgent grant; To plague us wi' your whinin' cant! From the "Tea-Table Miscellany," 1724. "Connected with this song," says Chambers," which few readers will need to be informed is a paraphrase, and a very happy one, of the celebrated 'Vides ut alta' of Horace, the following anecdote may be told. In a large mixed company, which had assembled one night in the house of a citizen of Edinburgh, where Robert Burns happened to be present, somebody sung 'Gin ye meet a bonnie lassie,' with excellent effect, insomuch as to throw all present into a sort of rapture. The only exception lay with a stiff pedantic old schoolmaster, who, in all the consciousness of superior critical acumen, and determined to be pleased with nothing which was not strictly classical, sat erect in his chair, with a countenance full of disdain, and rigidly abstained from expressing the slightest symptom of satisfaction. 'What ails you at the sang, Mr. -?' inquired an honest citizen of the name of Boog, who had been particularly delighted with it. 'Oh, nothing!' answered the man of learning; 'only the whole of it is stolen from Horace.' 'Houts, man!' replied Boog, 'Horace has rather stolen from the auld sang.' This ludicrous observation was met with absolute shouts of laughter, the whole of which was at the expense of the discomfited critic; and Burns was pleased to express his hearty thanks to the citizen for having set the matter to rights. He seems, from a passage in Cromek's Relics,' to have made use of the observation as his own.” MY JO JANET. From the "Tea-Table Miscellany." Air-"The keekin' glass," or "My jo Janet." SWEET sir, for your courtesie, When ye come by the Bass, then, For the love ye bear to me, Buy me a keekin' glass, then. "Keek into the draw-well, Janet, Janet; There ye'll see your bonnie sell, Keekin' in the draw-well clear, What if I fa' in, sir? Then a' my kin' will say and swear I droun'd mysell for sin, sir. "Haud the better by the brae, Janet, Janet; Haud the better by the brae, Gude sir, for your courtesie, Comin' through Aberdeen, then, For the love ye bear to me, Buy me a pair o' sheen, then. "Clout the auld-the new are dear, Janet, Janet; Ae pair may serve ye hauf a year, But what if, dancin' on the green Syne a' their fauts will no be seen, Kind sir, for your courtesie, When ye gae to the cross, then, Pace upon your spinnin' wheel, My spinnin' wheel is auld and stiff, But like it never wale a man, |