The lasses a', baith far and near,

Hae heard o' Rob the Ranter;
I'll shake my foot with right gude will,
Gif you'll blaw up your chanter.

Then to his bags he flew wi' speed,
About the drone he twisted;
Meg up and wallop'd o'er the green,
For brawly could she frisk it.
Weel done! quo' he-Play up! quo' she;
Weel bobb'd! quo' Rob the Ranter;
'Tis worth my while to play indeed
When I hae sic a dancer.

Weel hae you play'd your part, quo' Meg;
Your cheeks are like the crimson;
There's nane in Scotland plays sae weel
Since we lost Habbie Simpson.

I've lived in Fife, baith maid and wife,
These ten years and a quarter;

"This old song," says Burns," so pregnant with Scottish naïveté and energy, is much relished by all ranks. Its language is a precious model of imitation,—sly, sprightly, and forcibly expressive. Maggie's tongue wags out the nick-names of Rob the piper with all the careless lightsomeness of unrestrained gaiety."

KISSING'S NO SIN.

ANONYMOUS. Seventeenth or eighteenth century.

SOME

say that kissing's a sin;

But I think it's nane ava,

For kissing has wonn'd in this warld

Since ever that there was twa.

Oh, if it wasna lawfu',

Lawyers wadna allow it;

If it wasna holy,

Ministers wadna do it.

If it wasna modest,

Maidens wadna tak' it;

If it wasna plenty,

Puir folk wadna get it.

We are indebted to Mr. Robert Chambers for the preservation of this characteristic fragment. It was recovered by him from the singing of a friend, and first printed in 1829 in his "Historical Essay on Scottish Song."

FOR A' THAT.

ROBERT BURNS.

Is there for honest poverty

That hangs his head and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by;
We dare be puir for a' that.
For a' that and a' that,

Our toils obscure and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin' grey and a' that;

Gi'e fools their silks, an' knaves their wine,—

A man's a man for a' that.

For a' that and a' that,

Their tinsel show and a' that;

The honest man, though e'er sae poor,

Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord,

Wha struts and stares and a' that;

Though hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that.

For a' that and a' that,

His riband, star, and a' that;
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak’ a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might—
Guid faith, he mauna fa' that!
For a' that and a' that;

Their dignities and a' that;

The pith o' sense and pride o' worth
Are higher ranks than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a' that,

That sense and worth o'er a' the earth
May bear the gree and a' that.

For a' that and a' that,

It's comin' yet for a' that,

That man to man, the warld o'er,

Shall brothers be for a' that.

In reference to this immortal song, founded on a more ancient and very inferior one, with the same burden, or "overlay," Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson:—“A great critic (Aikin) on songs says that love and wine are the exclusive themes for songwriting. The following is on neither subject, and consequently is no song; but will be allowed, I think, to contain two or three pretty good prose thoughts inverted into rhyme."

SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD.

BURNS. Air-"Tibbie Fowler in the glen."
WILLIE Wastle dwalt on Tweed,

The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie;
Willie was a wabster guid,

Cou'd stown a clue wi' ony bodie;
He had a wife was dour and din,
Oh, Tinkler Madgie was her mither.
Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wadna gi'e a button for her.

She has an ee, she has but ane,
The cat has twa the very colour;
Five rusty teeth forbye a stump,

A clapper tongue wad deave a miller;

A whiskin beard about her mou',

Her nose and chin they threaten ither.
Sic a wife, &c.

She's bow-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd,
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter ;
She's twisted right, she's twisted left,

To balance fair in ilka quarter;
She has a hump upon her breast,
The twin o' that upon her shouther.
Sic a wife, &c.

Auld baudrans by the ingle sits,

An' wi' her loof her face a-washin; But Willie's wife is nae sae trig,

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion; Her walie nieves like midden-creels, Her face wad fyle the Logan-water. Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wadna gi'e a button for her.

MY SPOUSE NANCY.

BURNS. Air-"My jo Janet."

HUSBAND, husband, cease your strife,
Nor longer idly rave, sir;
Though I am your wedded wife,

Yet I am not your slave, sir.

"One of two must still obey,
Nancy, Nancy;

Is it man or woman, say,
My spouse Nancy ?"

If 'tis still the lordly word,
Service and obedience,

I'll desert my sovereign lord,

And so, good bye, allegiance.

"Sad will I be so bereft,

Nancy, Nancy;

Yet I'll try to make a shift,

My spouse Nancy."

My poor heart then break it must,
My last hour I'm near it;
When you lay me in the dust,
Think, think, how you will bear it.

"I will hope and trust in heaven,
Nancy, Nancy;

Strength to bear it will be given,
My spouse Nancy."

Well, sir, from the silent dead
Still I'll try to daunt you;
Ever round your midnight bed,
Horrid sprites shall haunt you.

"I'll wed another like my dear
Nancy, Nancy;

Then all hell will fly for fear,

My spouse Nancy."

"Your humorous English song to suit Jo Janet' is inimitable."-Thomson, in a Letter to Burns.

WHISTLE O'ER THE LAVE O'T.

BURNS. Air-" Whistle o'er the lave o't."

FIRST When Maggie was my care,
Heaven I thought was in her air;
Now we're married-speir nae mair-
Whistle o'er the lave o't.

Meg was meek, and Meg was mild,
Bonnie Meg was Nature's child-
Wiser men than me's beguiled;

Whistle o'er the lave o't.