No More Learning

I kiss'd her o'er and o'er again,
And aye she wist na what to say:
I laid her 'tween me and the wa';
The lassie thocht na lang till day.
The bonie lass, &c.

Upon the morrow when we raise,
I thank'd her for her courtesie;
But aye she blush'd and aye she sigh'd,
And said, "Alas, ye've ruin'd me. "
I claps'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne,
While the tear stood twinkling in her e'e;
I said, my lassie, dinna cry.
For ye aye shall make the bed to me.
The bonie lass, &c.

She took her mither's holland sheets,
An' made them a' in sarks to me;
Blythe and merry may she be,
The lass that made the bed to me.

Chorus--The bonie lass made the bed to me,
The braw lass made the bed to me.
I'll ne'er forget till the day I die,
The lass that made the bed to me.




Had I The Wyte? She Bade Me

Had I the wyte, had I the wyte,
Had I the wyte? she bade me;
She watch'd me by the hie-gate side,
And up the loan she shaw'd me.

And when I wadna venture in,
A coward loon she ca'd me:
Had Kirk an' State been in the gate,
I'd lighted when she bade me.

Sae craftilie she took me ben,
And bade me mak nae clatter;
"For our ramgunshoch, glum gudeman
Is o'er ayont the water. "

Whae'er shall say I wanted grace,
When I did kiss and dawte her,
Let him be planted in my place,
Syne say, I was the fautor.
Could I for shame, could I for shame,
Could I for shame refus'd her;
And wadna manhood been to blame,
Had I unkindly used her!

He claw'd her wi' the ripplin-kame,
And blae and bluidy bruis'd her;
When sic a husband was frae hame,
What wife but wad excus'd her!

I dighted aye her e'en sae blue,
An' bann'd the cruel randy,
And weel I wat, her willin' mou
Was sweet as sugar-candie.

At gloamin-shot, it was I wot,
I lighted on the Monday;
But I cam thro' the Tyseday's dew,
To wanton Willie's brandy.




Does Haughty Gaul Invasion Threat?

Tune--"Push about the Jorum. "


Does haughty Gaul invasion threat?
Then let the louns beware, Sir;
There's wooden walls upon our seas,
And volunteers on shore, Sir:
The Nith shall run to Corsincon,
And Criffel sink in Solway,
Ere we permit a Foreign Foe
On British ground to rally!
We'll ne'er permit a Foreign Foe
On British ground to rally!

O let us not, like snarling curs,
In wrangling be divided,
Till, slap! come in an unco loun,
And wi' a rung decide it!
Be Britain still to Britain true,
Amang ourselves united;
For never but by British hands
Maun British wrangs be righted!
No! never but by British hands
Shall British wrangs be righted!

The Kettle o' the Kirk and State,
Perhaps a clout may fail in't;
But deil a foreign tinkler loun
Shall ever ca'a nail in't.
Our father's blude the Kettle bought,
And wha wad dare to spoil it;
By Heav'ns!