They cooper'd at e'en, they cooper'd at morn,
'Till our gude-man has gotten the scorn;
On ilka brow she's planted a horn,

And swears that they shall stan,' O.
We'll hide the cooper behind the door,
Behind the door, behind the door;
We'll hide the cooper behind the door,
And cover him under a mawn, O.

NITHSDALE'S WELCOME HAME. †

THE noble Maxwells and their powers
Are coming o'er the border,
And they'll gae bigg Terreagle's towers,
An' set them a' in order,
And they declare Terreagle's fair,

For their abode they choose it;
There's no a heart in a' the land,
But's lighter at the news o't.

Tho' stars in skies may disappear,
And angry tempests gather;
The happy hour may soon be near
That brings us pleasant weather:
The weary night o' care and grief
May hae a joyful morrow;

So dawning day has brought relief —
Fareweel our night o' sorrow!

+ These verses are in the Musical Museum, p. 375, but not with Burns' name to them. They have been collated with a copy in the Poet's own hand.

THE TAILOR.t

TUNE - THE TAILOR FELL THRO' THE BED, THIMBLES AN' A'.'

THE Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a',
The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a';
The blankets were thin, and the sheets they were
sma',

The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a'.

The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill,
The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill;
The weather was cauld, and the lassie lay still,
She thought that a tailor could do her nae ill.

Gie me the groat again, canny young man;
Gie me the groat again, canny young man;
The day it is short, and the night it is lang,
The dearest siller that ever I wan!

There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane; There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane; There's some that are dowie, I trow wad be fain To see the bit tailor come skippin' again.

The second and fourth stanzas of this Song, Burns says, were written by him, the remainder being very old. The air is the march of the Corporation of Tailors, and is played at their annual elections and processions. It is in the Musical Museum, p. 221, but without Burns' name.

THE TITHER MORN.+

THE tither morn,

When I forlorn,

Aneath an aik sat moaning,

I did na trow,

I'd see my Jo,

Beside me, gain the gloaming.
But he sae trig,

Lap o'er the rig,

And dawtingly did cheer me,
When I, what reck,

Did least expec',

To see my lad so near me.

His bonnet he,

A thought ajee,

Cock'd sprush when first he clasp'd me;
And I, I wat,

Wi' fainness grat,
While in his grips he press'd me,

Deil tak' the war!

I late and air,

"The tune" of this Song, Burns says, "is originally from the Highlands. I have heard a Gaelic song to it, which I was told was very clever; but not by any means a lady's song." It occurs in the Musical Museum, p. 355, but his name is not to it.

Hae wish'd since Jock departed;

But now as glad

I'm wi' my lad,

As short

syne

broken-hearted.

Fu' aft at e'en

Wi' dancing keen,

When a' were blythe and merry,

I car'd na by,

Sae sad was I

In absence o' my dearie.

But, praise be blest,

My mind's at rest,
I'm happy wi' my Johnny:

At kirk and fair,

I'se ay be there,

And be as canty's ony.

THE CARLE OF KELLYBURN BRAES. +

TUNE- KELLYBURN BRAES.'

THERE lived a carle on Kellyburn braes
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme),
And he had a wife was the plague o' his days;
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

+ This Song, which is in the Musical Museum, p. 392,with Burns' name, is one to which, in his wife's homely but expressive phrase, the Poet gave a "terrible brushing." Indeed so much of it is his own that it is scarcely possible to point out what is not.

Ae day as the carle gaed up the lang glen

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), He met wi' the Devil; says, 'How do yow fen?'

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

'I've got a bad wife, sir; that's a' my complaint (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), For, saving your presence, to her ye're a saint; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.'

'It's neither your stot nor your staig I shall crave' (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) 'But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have,'

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.'

'O welcome, most kindly,' the blythe carle said (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 'But if ye can match her, ye're waur nor ye're ca'd, And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.'

The Devil has got the auld wife on his back

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), And, like a poor pedlar, he's carried his pack; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

He's carried her hame to his ain hallan-door

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme) Syne bade her gae in, for a b—h and a w—e, And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o' his band (Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), Turn out on her guard in the clap of a hand;

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.