Wha will buy my troggin, fine election ware, Broken trade o’ Broughton, a’ in high repair? Chorus: Buy braw troggin frae the banks o’ Dee; Wha wants troggin let him come to me. There’s a noble Earl’s fame and high renown, For an auld sang—it’s thought the gudes were stown— Buy braw troggin, ... Here’s the worth o’ Broughton in a needle’s e’e; Here’s a reputation tint by Balmaghie. Buy braw troggin, ... Here’s its stuff and lining, Cardoness’ head, Fine for a soger, a’ the wale o’ lead. Buy braw troggin, ... Here’s a little wadset, Buittle’s scrap o’ truth, Pawn’d in a gin-shop, quenching holy drouth. Buy braw troggin, ... Here’s an honest conscience might a prince adorn; Frae the downs o’ Tinwald, so was never worn. Buy braw troggin, ... Here’s armorial bearings frae the manse o’ Urr; The crest, a sour crab-apple, rotten at the core. Buy braw troggin, ... Here’s the worth and wisdom Collieston can boast; By a thievish midge they had been nearly lost. Buy braw troggin, ... Here is Satan’s picture, like a bizzard gled, Pouncing poor Redcastle, sprawlin’ like a taed. Buy braw troggin, ... Here’s the font where Douglas stane and mortar names; Lately used at Caily christening Murray’s crimes. Buy braw troggin, ... Here is Murray’s fragments o’ the ten commands; Gifted by black Jock to get them aff his hands. Buy braw troggin, ... Saw ye e’er sic troggin? if to buy ye’re slack, Hornie’s turnin chapman—he’ll buy a’ the pack. Buy braw troggin, ...
Scottish Lyrics, Book 2
by Francis George Scott (1880 - 1958)
1. Wha will buy my troggin?  [sung text not yet checked]
Authorship:
- by Robert Burns (1759 - 1796), "Ballad on Mr. Heron’s Election — No. 4"
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Researcher for this page: Iain Sneddon [Guest Editor]2. Weel I lo'e Mary  [sung text not yet checked]
There lives a young lassie Far down yon lang glen; How I lo'e that lassie There's nae ane can ken! O! a saint's faith may vary. But faithful I'll be; For weel I lo'e Mary, An' Mary lo'es me. Red, red as the rowan Her smiling wee mou'; An' white as the gowan Her breast and her brow! Wi' a foot o' a fairy She links o'er the lea; O! weel I lo'e Mary, An' Mary lo'es me. She sings sweet as onie Wee bird of the air, And she's blithe as she's bonnie. She's guid as she's fair; Like a lammie sae airy And artless is she, O! weel I lo'e Mary, And Mary lo'es me! Where yon tall forest timmer, An' lowly broom bower, To the sunshine o' simmer Spread verdure an' flower; There, when night clouds the cary, Beside her I'll be; For weel I lo'e Mary, And Mary lo'es me.
Authorship:
- by John Imlah (1799 - 1846), "There lives a young lassie"
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Researcher for this page: Iain Sneddon [Guest Editor]3. My wife shall ha'e her will  [sung text not yet checked]
If my dear wife should chance to gang, Wi' me, to Edinburgh toun, Into a shop I will her tak', And buy her a new goun. But if my dear wife should hain the charge As I expect she will, And if she says, The auld will do, By my word she shall ha'e her will. If my dear wife should wish to gang, To see a neebor or friend, A horse or a chair I will provide, And a servant to attend. But if my dear wife shall hain the charge, As I expect she will, And if she says, I'll walk on foot, By my word she shall lia'c her will. If my dear wife shall bring me a son, As I expect she will, Cake and wine I will provide, And a nurse to nurse the child. But if my dear wife shall hain the charge, As I expect she will, And if she says, She'll nurs't hersel', By my word she shall ha'e her will.
Authorship:
- by Anonymous / Unidentified Author, "My wife shall ha'e her will", first published 1824
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Researcher for this page: Iain Sneddon [Guest Editor]4. O merry hae I been teething a heckle  [sung text not yet checked]
O merry hae I been teethin a heckle, An' merry hae I been shapin a spoon: O merry hae I been cloutin a kettle, An' kissin my Katie when a' was done. O, a' the lang day I ca' at my hammer, An' a' the lang day I whistle and sing; O, a' the lang night I cuddle my kimmer, An' a' the lang night as happy 's a king. Bitter in dool I lickit my winnins O' marrying Bess, to gie her a slave: Blest be the hour she cool'd in her linnens, And blythe be the bird that sings on her grave! Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie, An' come to my arms and kiss me again! Druken or sober, here 's to thee, Katie! And blest be the day I did it again.
Authorship:
- by Robert Burns (1759 - 1796)
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]5. Mary Morison  [sung text not yet checked]
O Mary, at thy window be! It is the wish'd the trysted hour. Those smiles and glances let me see, That makes the miser's treasure poor. How blythely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure -- The lovely Mary Morison! Yestreen, when to the trembling string The dance gaed thro the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard or saw: Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, And yon the toast of a' the town, I sigh'd, and said amang them a' -- "Ye are na Mary Morison!" O, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? Or canst thou break that heart of his Whase only faut is loving thee? If love for love thou wilt na gie, At least be pity to me shown: A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison.
Authorship:
- by Robert Burns (1759 - 1796), "Mary Morison"
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Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- CZE Czech (Čeština) (Josef Václav Sládek) , "Mary Morison"
- FRE French (Français) (Pierre Mathé) , "Mary Morison", copyright © 2014, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- GER German (Deutsch) (Anonymous/Unidentified Artist) , "Mariechen, komm ans Fensterlein"
- GER German (Deutsch) (Gustav Legerlotz) , "Mary Morison"
- HUN Hungarian (Magyar) (József Lévay) , "Morison Mari"
Researcher for this page: Pierre Mathé [Guest Editor]
6. The weary pund o' tow  [sung text not yet checked]
The weary pund, the weary pund, The weary pund o' tow; I think my wife will end her life, Before she spin her tow. - I bought my wife a stane o' lint, As gude as e'er did grow; And a' that she has made o' that Is ae poor pund o' tow. - The weary pund, the weary pund ... There sat a bottle in a bole, Beyont the ingle low; And ay she took the tither souk, To drouk the stourie tow. - The weary pund, the weary pund... Quoth I, for shame, ye dirty dame, Gae spin your tap o' tow! She took the rock, and wi' a knock, She brak it o'er my pow. - The weary pund, the weary pund... At last her feet, I sang to see 't, Gaed foremost o'er the knowe; And or I wad anither jad, I'll wallop in a tow. - The weary pund, the weary pund...
Authorship:
- by Robert Burns (1759 - 1796)
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Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]7. Crowdie  [sung text not yet checked]
O that I had ne'er been married, I wad never had nae care, now I've gotten wife an' weans, an' they cry 'Crowdie' evermair. Chorus: Ance crowdie, twice crowdie, three times crowdie in a day gin ye crowdie ony mair, ye'll crowdie a' my meal away. Waefu' Want and Hunger fley me, glowrin' by the hallan en'; Sair I fecht them at the door, But aye I'm eerie they come ben. Ance crowdie, &c.
Authorship:
- by Robert Burns (1759 - 1796)
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Researcher for this page: Guy Laffaille [Guest Editor]8. O were my love yon lilac fair  [sung text not yet checked]
O were my Love yon lilac fair, Wi' purple blossoms to the spring, And I a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing; How I wad mourn when it was torn By autumn wild and winter rude! But I wad sing on wanton wing When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd. O gin my Love were yon red rose That grows upon the castle wa', And I mysel a drap o' dew, Into her bonnie breast to fa'; [O there, beyond expression blest, I'd feast on beauty a' the night; Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Till fley'd awa' by Phoebus' light.]1
Authorship:
- by Robert Burns (1759 - 1796), "O were my Love yon lilac fair"
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Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- CZE Czech (Čeština) (Josef Václav Sládek) , "Kéž byla bys ten vonný bez"
- SPA Spanish (Español) (Elisa Rapado) , copyright © 2020, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
1 omitted by Beach.
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
9. Gruel  [sung text not yet checked]
There dwalt a man into the west, And O gin he was cruel, For on his bridal night at e'en He gat up and grat for gruel. They brought to him a gude sheep head, A napkin and a towel: Gar tak' thae whim-whams fer frae me, And bring to me my gruel. But there's nae meal in a' the house, What will we do, my jewel? Get up the powk and shake it out, I winna want my gruel. But there's nae milk in a' the house, Nor yet a spunk o' fuel: Gae warm it in the light o' the moon, I winna want my gruel. O lake-a-day for my first wife, Wha was baith white and rosie, She cheer'd me aye at e'ening fa' Wi' something warm and cozie: Farewell to pleasant draps o' drink, To butter brose and gruel; And farewell to my first sweet wife, My cannie Nancy Newell.
Authorship:
- by Allan Cunningham (1784 - 1842), "There dwalt a man"
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Researcher for this page: Iain Sneddon [Guest Editor]