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When we came to London Town,
We dream’d of Gowd in Gowpings here,
And rantinly ran up and down,
In rising Stocks to buy a Skair:
We daftly thought to row in Rowth,
But for our Daffine pay’d right dear;
The lave will fare the war in Trouth,
For our lang biding here.
But when we fand our Purses toom,
And dainty Stocks began to fa’,
We hang our Lugs and wi’ a Gloom,
Girn’d at Stockjobbing ane and a’.
If ye gang near the South Sea House,
The Whillywha’s will grip ye’r Gear,
Syne a’ the Lave will fare the war,
For our lang biding here.
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2. |
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When innocent Pastime our Pleasure did crown,
Upon a green Meadow, or under a Tree,
E’er Annie became a fine Lady in Town,
How lovely and loving and bony was she?
Rouze up thy Reason, my beautifu’ Annie,
Let ne’er a new Whim ding thy Fancy ajee,
O! as thou art bonny be faithfu’ and canny,
And favour thy Jamie wha doats upon thee.
Does the Death of a Lintwhite give Annie the Spleen?
Can tyning of Trifles be uneasy to thee?
Can Lap-dogs and Monkies draw Tears frae these Een,
That look with Indifference on poor dying me?
Rouse up thy Reason, my beautifu’ Annie,
And dinna prefer a Paroquet to me,
O! as thou art bony, be prudent and canny,
And think on thy Jamie, wha doats upon thee.
Ah! shou’d a new Manto or Flanders Lace Head,
Or yet a wee Cottie, tho never sae fine,
Gar thee grow forgetfu’ and let his Heart bleed,
That anes had some Hope of purchasing thine.
Rouse up thy Reason, my beautifu’ Annie,
And dinna prefer ye’r Fleegeries to me;
O! as thou art bonny be solid and canny,
And tent a true Lover that dotes upon thee.
Shall a Paris Edition of newfangle Sany,
Tho gilt o’er wi’ Laces and Fringes he be,
By adoring himself be admir’d by fair Annie,
And aim at these Bennisons promis’d to me.
Rouse up thy Reason, my beautifu’ Annie,
And never prefer a light Dancer to me;
O! as thou art bonny be constant and canny,
Love only thy Jamie wha doats upon thee.
O! think, my dear Charmer, on ilka sweet Hour,
That slade away saftly between thee and me,
E’er Squirrels or Beaus or Fopery had Power
To rival my Love and impose upon thee.
Rouse up thy Reason, my beautifu’ Annie,
And let thy Desires be a’ center’d in me,
O! as thou art bonny be faithfu’ and canny,
And love him wha’s langing to center in thee.
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3. |
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4. |
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M I T H E R.
Auld Rob Moris that wins in yon Glen,
He’s the King of good Fellows, and Wale of auld Men,
Has fourscore of black Sheep, and four-score too;
Auld Rob Moris is the Man ye maun loo.
D O U G H T E R.
Ha’d your Tongue Mither, and let that abee,
For his Eild and my Eild can never agree:
They’ll never agree, and that will be seen;
For he is Fourscore, and I’m but Fifteen.
M I T H E R.
Ha’d your Tongue Doughter, and lay by your Pride,
For he’s be the Bridegroom, and ye’s be the Bride;
He shall ly by your Side, and kiss ye too,
Auld Rob Moris is the Man ye maun loo.
D O U G H T E R.
Auld Rob Moris I ken him fou weel,
His A[rse] it sticks out like ony Peet-Creel,
He’s out-shind, in-kneed and ringle-eyd too;
Auld Rob Moris is the Man I’ll ne’er loo.
M I T H E R.
Tho’ auld Rob Moris be an elderly Man,
Yet his auld Brass it will buy a new Pan;
Then, Doughter, ye shouldna be sae ill to shoo,
For auld Rob Moris is the Man ye maun loo.
D O U G H T E R.
But auld Rob Moris I never will hae,
His Back is sae stiff and his Beard is grown Gray:
I had fitter die than live wi’ him a Year;
Sae mair of Rob Moris I never will hear.
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5. |
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Now the Sun’s gane out o’ Sight,
Beet the Ingle, and snuff the Light:
In Glens the Fairies skip and dance,
And Witches wallop o’er to France,
Up in the Air
On my bonny grey Mare,
And I see her yet, and I see her yet,
Up in, &c.
The Wind’s drifting Hail and Sna’
O’er frozen Hags like a Foot Ba’,
Nae Starns keek throw the Azure Slit,
’Tis cauld and mirk as ony Pit,
The Man i’ the Moon
Is carowsing aboon,
D’ye see, d’ye see, d’ye see him yet.
The Man, &c.
Take your Glass to clear your Een,
’Tis the Elixir heals the Spleen,
Baith Wit and Mirth it will inspire,
And gently puffs the Lover’s Fire,
Up in the Air,
It drives away Care,
Ha’e wi’ye, ha’e wi’ye, and ha’e wi’ye Lads yet,
Up in, &c.
Steek the Doors, keep out the Frost,
Come, Willie, gi’es about ye’r Tost,
Til’t Lads, and lilt it out,
And let us hae a blythsome Bout.
Up wi’t there, there,
Dinna cheat, but drink fair,
Huzza, Huzza, and Huzza Lads yet,
Up wi’t, &c.
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6. |
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7. |
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My Peggy is a young thing,
Just enter’d in her Teens,
Fair as the Day, and sweet as May,
Fair as the Day, and always gay.
My Peggy is a young Thing,
And I’m not very auld,
Yet well I like to meet her at
The wawking of the Fauld.
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
When e’er we meet alane.
I wish nae mair, to lay my Care,
I wish nae mair, of a’ that’s rare.
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
To a’ the lave I’m cauld;
But she gars a’ my Spirits glow
At wawking of the Fauld.
My Peggy smiles sae kindly,
Whene’er I whisper Love,
That I look down on a’ the Town,
That I look down upon a Crown.
My Peggy smiles sae kindly,
It makes me blyth and bauld.
And naithing gi’es me sic Delight
As wawking of the Fauld.
My Peggy sings sae saftly,
When on my Pipe I play;
By a’ the rest, it is confest,
By a’ the rest, that she sings best.
My Peggy sings sae saftly,
And in her Sangs are tald,
With Innocence the Wale of Sense,
At wawking of the Fauld.
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8. |
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PEGGY.
When first my dear Laddie gade to the Green hill,
And I at Ew-milking first seyd my young Skill,
To bear the Milk-bowie, nae Pain was to me,
When I at the Bughting forgather’d with thee.
PATIE.
When Corn-riggs wav’d yellow, and blew Hether-bells
Bloom’d bonny on Moorland and sweet-rising Fells,
Nae Birns, Brier, or Breckens, gave Trouble to me,
If I found the Berries right ripen’d for thee.
PEGGY.
When thou ran, or wrestled, or putted the Stane,
And came aff the Victor, my Heart was ay fain:
Thy ilka Sport manly, gave Pleasure to me;
For nane can put, wrestle or run swift as thee.
PATIE.
Our Jenny sings saftly the Cowden-Broom-Knows,
And Rosie lilts sweetly the Milking the Ews;
There’s few Jenny Nettles like Nansy can sing,
At Throw the Wood Laddie, Bess gars our Lugs ring:
But when my dear Peggy sings with better Skill,
The Boat-man, Tweed-side, or the Lass of the Mill,
’Tis many Times sweeter and pleasing to me;
For tho’ they sing nicely, they cannot like thee.
PEGGY.
How easy can Lasses trow what they desire?
And Praises sae kindly increases Love’s Fire;
Give me still this Pleasure, my Study shall be
To make my self better and sweeter for thee.
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9. |
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Patie (sings).
By the delicious Warmness of thy Mouth,
And rowing Eye that smiling tells the Truth,
I guess, my Lassie, that as well as I,
Your made for Love, and why should ye deny?
Peggy (sings.)
But ken ye, Lad, gif we confess o’er soon,
Ye think us cheap, and syne the Woing’s done?
The Maiden that o’er quickly tynes her Power,
Like unripe Fruit will taste but hard and sowr.
Patie (sings.)
But gin they hing o’er lang upon the Tree,
Their Sweetness they may tine, and sae may ye.
Red cheeked you completely ripe appear,
And I have thol’d and woo’d a lang Half-year.
Peggy (singing falls into Patie’s Arms.)
Then dinna pou me, gently thus I fa’
Into my Patie’s Arms for good and a’:
But stint your Wishes to this kind Embrace,
And mint nae farther till we’ve got the Grace.
Patie (with his left Hand about her Waist.)
O Charming Armfu’! hence, ye Cares, away:
I’ll kiss my Treasure a’ the live lang Day;
All Night I’ll dream my Kisses o’er again,
Till that Day come that ye’ll be a’ my ain.
Sung by both.
Sun, gallop down the Westlin Skyes,
Gang soon to Bed, and quickly rise;
O! Lash your Steeds, post Time away,
And haste about our Bridal Day:
And if ye’er wearied, honest Light,
Sleep gin ye like a Week that Night.
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10. |
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Peggy.
Speak on, --- speak thus, and still my Grief,
Hold up a Heart that’s sinking under
These Fears, that soon will want Relief,
When Pate must from his Peggy sunder.
A gentler Face and Silk-attire,
A Lady rich in Beauty’s Blossom,
Alake poor me! will now conspire,
To steal thee from thy Peggy’s Bosom.
No more the Shepherd who excell’d
The rest, whose Wit made them to wonder,
Shall now his Peggy’s Praises tell,
Ah! I can die, but never sunder.
Ye Meadows where we often stray’d,
Ye Banks where we were wont to wander.
Sweet scented Rucks round which we play’d,
You’ll lose your Sweets when we’re asunder.
Again ah! I shall never creep
Around the Know with silent Duty,
Kindly to watch thee while asleep,
And wonder at thy manly Beauty?
Hear, Heaven, while solemnly I vow,
Tho’ thou shouldst prove a wandering Lover,
Throw Life to thee I shall prove true,
Nor be a Wife to any other.
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11. |
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12. |
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‘Tis I have seven braw new Gowns,
And ither seven better to mak,
And yet for a’ my new Gowns
My Woer has turn’d his Back.
Besides I have seven Milk Ky,
And Sandy he has but three;
And yet for a’ my good Ky,
The Laddie winna ha’e me.
My Dady’s a Delver of Dikes,
My Mither can card and spin,
And I am a fine fodgel Lass,
And the Siller comes linkin in:
The Siller comes linkin in,
And it is fou fair to see,
And fifty Times wow! O wow!
What ails the Lads at me.
When ever our Bauty does bark,
Then fast to the Door I rin,
To see gin ony young Spark
Will light and venture but in:
But never a ane will come in,
Tho mony a ane gaes by,
Syne far Ben the House I rin,
And a weary Wight am I.
When I was at my first Pray’rs,
I pray’d but anes i’the Year,
I wish’d for a handsome young Lad,
And a Lad with muckle Gear.
When I was at my neist Prayers,
I pray’d but now and than,
I fash’d na my Head about Gear,
If I get a handsome young Man.
Now when I’m at my last Prayers,
I pray on baith Night and Day,
And O! if a Beggar wad come,
With that same Beggar I’d gae.
And O what’ll come o’ me,
And O what’ll I do,
That sic a braw Lassie as I
Shou’d die for a Woer I trow!
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13. |
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14. |
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Sweet Sir, for your Courtesie,
When ye came by the Bass then,
For the Love ye bear to me,
Buy me a Keeking-glass then.
Keek into the Draw-well
Janet, Janet,
And there ye’ll see ye’r bonny sell,
My Jo Janet.
Keeking in the Draw-well clear
What if I should fa’ in,
Syn a’ my Kin will say and swear
I drown’d my sell for Sin.
Ha’d the better be the Brae,
Janet, Janet;
Ha’d the better be the Brae,
My Jo Janet.
Good Sir, for your Courtesie,
Coming through Aberdeen then,
For the Love ye bear to me
Buy me a Pair of Shoon then.
Clout the auld the new are dear,
Janet, Janet;
Ae Pair may gane ye haff a Year,
My Jo Janet.
But what if dancing on the Green,
And skipping like a Mawking,
If they shou’d see my clouted Shoon,
Of me they will be tauking.
Dance ay laigh and late at E’en,
Janet, Janet;
Syne a’ their Fauts will no be seen,
My Jo Janet.
Kind Sir for your Courtesie,
When ye gae to the Cross then,
For the Love ye bear to me,
Buy me a pacing Horse then.
Pace upo’ your Spinning-wheel,
Janet, Janet;
Pace upo’ your Spinning-wheel,
My Jo Janet.
My Spinning-wheel is auld and stiff,
The Rock o’t winna stand, Sir;
To keep the Temper-pin in tift
Employs aft my Hand, Sir.
Make the best o’t that ye can,
Janet, Janet;
But like it never wale a Man,
My Jo Janet.
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Lassie, lend me your braw Hemp Heckle,
And I’ll lend you my Thripling Kame;
For Fainness, Dearie, I’ll gar ye keckle,
If ye’ll go dance the Bob of Dunblane.
Haste ye, gang to the Ground of ye’r Trunkies,
Busk ye braw and dinna think Shame;
Consider in Time, if leading of Monkies
Be better than dancing the Bob of Dunblane.
Be frank, my Lassie, lest I grow fickle,
And take my Word and Offer again.
Syne ye may chance to repent it mickle,
Ye did na accept the Bob of Dunblane.
The Dinner, the Piper and Priest shall be ready,
And I’m grown dowie with lying my lane;
Away then leave baith Minny and Dady,
And try with me the Bob of Dunblane.
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17. |
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Come let’s ha’e mair Wine in,
Bacchus hates Repining,
Venus loos na Dwining,
Let’s be blith and free.
Away with dull here t’ye, Sir,
Ye’r Mistress ------ gi’es her,
We’ll drink her Health wi’ Pleasure,
Wha’s belov’d by thee.
Then let -------- warm ye,
That’s a Lass can charm ye,
And to Joys alarm ye,
Sweet is she to me.
Some Angel ye wad ca’ her,
And never wish ane brawer,
If ye bare Headed saw her,
Kiltet to the Knee.
------- a dainty Lass is,
Come let’s join our Glasses,
And refresh our Hawses,
With a Health to thee.
Let Coofs their Cash be clinking,
Be Statesmen tint in Thinking,
While with Love and Drinking,
We gi’e our Cares the Lie.
N. B. The first Blank to be supply’d with the Toster’s Name, the two last with the Name of the Toast.
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Poet, dramatist, and all-round cultural entrepreneur Allan Ramsay wrote and collected songs to publish from his bookshop in 1720s Edinburgh.
The songs touch on love, society, commerce, drinking and lots more, and our brilliant cast of five singers brings the early Enlightenment culture of Scotland to life with songs from The Tea-Table Miscellany, vol. 1 (1723) and The Gentle Shepherd (1725-29), along with tunes from Ramsay's artistic circle.
