O, Tullochgorum's my delight; It gars us a' in ane unite; And ony sumph' that keeps up spite, In conscience I abhor him: For blythe and cheery we's be a', Blythe and cheery, blythe and cheery, Blythe and cheery we's be a', And mak a happy quorum; For blythe and cheery we's be a', As lang as we hae breath to draw, And dance, till we be like to fa', The reel o' Tullochgorum! There needs na be sae great a phrase Wi' dringing dull Italian lays; I wadna gi'e our ain strathspeys For half a hundred score o' 'em: They're douff and dowie at the best, Douff and dowie, douff and dowie, They're douff and dowie at the best, Wi' a' their variorum; They're douff and dowie at the best, Their _allegros_ and a' the rest; They canna please a Scottish taste, Compared wi' Tullochgorum. Let warldly minds themselves oppress Wi' fears of want and double cess, And sullen sots themselves distress Wi' keeping up decorum: Shall we sae sour and sulky sit? Sour and sulky, sour and sulky, Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Like auld Philosophorum? Shall we so sour and sulky sit, Wi' neither sense nor mirth nor wit, Nor ever rise to shake a fit To the reel o' Tullochgorum? May choicest blessings still attend Each honest, open-hearted friend; And calm and quiet be his end, And a' that's good watch o'er him! May peace and plenty be his lot, Peace and plenty, peace and plenty, May peace and plenty be his lot, And dainties a great store o' em! May peace and plenty be his lot, Unstained by any vicious spot, And may he never want a groat That's fond o' Tullochgorum! But for the dirty, yawning fool Who wants to be Oppression's tool, May envy gnaw his rotten soul, And discontent devour him! May dool and sorrow be his chance, Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow, May dool and sorrow be his chance, And nane say 'wae's me' for him! May dool and sorrow be his chance, Wi' a' the ills that come frae France, Whae'er he be, that winna dance The reel o' Tullochgorum! * * * * * THOMAS CHATTERTON [SONGS FROM "AELLA, A TRAGYCAL ENTERLUDE, WROTENN BIE THOMAS ROWLEIE"] [THE BODDYNGE FLOURETTES BLOSHES ATTE THE LYGHTE] FYRSTE MYNSTRELLE The boddynge flourettes bloshes atte the lyghte; The mees be sprenged wyth the yellowe hue; Ynn daiseyd mantels ys the mountayne dyghte; The nesh yonge coweslepe blendethe wyth the dewe; The trees enlefèd, yntoe Heavenne straughte, Whenn gentle wyndes doe blowe to whestlyng dynne ys brought. The evenynge commes, and brynges the dewe alonge; The roddie welkynne sheeneth to the eyne; Arounde the alestake Mynstrells synge the songe; Yonge ivie rounde the doore poste do entwyne; I laie mee onn the grasse; yette, to mie wylle, Albeytte alle ys fayre, there lackethe somethynge stylle. SECONDE MYNSTRELLE