Volume Iii Part 13 (1/2)

Although it 's been lang in repute For rogues to mak rich by deceiving, Yet I see that it does not weel suit Honest men to begin to the thieving; For my heart it gaed dunt upon dunt, Oh! I thought ilka dunt it would crack it; Sae I flang frae my neive what was in 't, Still the happer said, Tak it, man, tak it.

Hey for the mill, &c.

A man that 's been bred to the plough, Might be deaved wi' its clamorous clapper; Yet there 's few but would suffer the sough After kenning what 's said by the happer.

I whiles thought it scoff'd me to scorn, Saying, Shame, is your conscience no checkit?

But when I grew dry for a horn, It changed aye to Tak it, man, tak it.

Hey for the mill, &c.

The smugglers whiles cam wi' their pocks, Cause they kent that I liked a bicker; Sae I bartered whiles wi' the gowks, Gaed them grain for a soup o' their liquor.

I had lang been accustom'd to drink, And aye when I purposed to quat it, That thing wi' its clappertie clink Said aye to me, Tak it, man, tak it.

Hey for the mill, &c.

But the warst thing I did in my life, Nae doubt but ye 'll think I was wrang o 't, Od! I tauld a bit bodie in Fife A' my tale, and he made a bit sang o 't; I have aye had a voice a' my days, But for singing I ne'er got the knack o 't; Yet I tried whiles, just thinking to please The greedy wi' Tak it, man, tak it.

Hey the mill, &c.

Now, miller and a' as I am, This far I can see through the matter, There 's men mair notorious to fame, Mair greedy than me or the muter; For 'twad seem that the hale race o' men, Or wi' safety the half we may mak it, Had some speaking happer within, That said to them, Tak it, man, tak it.

Hey for the mill, &c.

OH, SWEET WERE THE HOURS.

AIR--_”Gregor Arora.”_

Oh, sweet were the hours That I spent wi' my Flora, In yon gay shady bowers, Roun' the linn o' the Cora!

Her breath was the zephyrs That waft frae the roses, And skim o'er the heath As the summer day closes.

I told her my love-tale, Which seem'd to her cheering; Then she breathed on the soft gale Her song so endearing.

The rock echoes ringing Seem'd charm'd wi' my story; And the birds, sweetly singing, Replied to my Flora.

The sweet zephyr her breath As it wafts frae the roses, And skims o'er the heath As the summer day closes.

PATE BIRNIE.[27]

Our minstrels a', frae south to north, To Edin cam to try their worth, And ane cam frae the banks o' Forth, Whase name was Patie Birnie.

This Patie, wi' superior art, Made notes to ring through head and heart, Till citizens a' set apart Their praise to Patie Birnie.

Tell auld Kinghorn, o' Picish birth, Where, noddin', she looks o'er the Firth, Aye when she would enhance her worth, To sing o' Patie Birnie.

His merits mak _Auld Reekie_[28] ring, Mak rustic poets o' him sing; For nane can touch the fiddle-string Sae weel as Patie Birnie.

He cheers the sage, the sour, the sad, Maks youngsters a rin louping mad, Heads grow giddy, hearts grow glad, Enchanted wi' Pate Birnie.