Scottish Lyrics, Book 2

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, ...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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.

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

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.