See yonder rosebud, rich in dew, Amang its native briers sae coy; How sune it tines its scent and hue, When pu’d and worn a common toy. Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide, Tho’ thou may gaily bloom awhile; And sune thou shalt be thrown aside, Like ony common weed and vile. Lines On Fergusson, The Poet Ill-fated genius! Heaven-taught Fergusson! What heart that feels and will not yield a tear, To think Life’s sun did set e’er well begun To shed its influence on thy bright career. O why should truest Worth and Genius pine Beneath the iron grasp of Want and Woe, While titled knaves and idiot—Greatness shine In all the splendour Fortune can bestow? The Weary Pund O’ Tow Chorus.—The weary pund, the weary pund, The weary pund o’ tow; I think my wife will end her life, Before she spin her tow. I bought my wife a stane o’ lint, As gude as e’er did grow, And a’ that she has made o’ that Is ae puir pund o’ tow. The weary pund, &c. There sat a bottle in a bole, Beyont the ingle low; And aye she took the tither souk, To drouk the stourie tow. The weary pund, &c. Quoth I, For shame, ye dirty dame, Gae spin your tap o’ tow! She took the rock, and wi’ a knock, She brak it o’er my pow. The weary pund, &c. At last her feet—I sang to see’t! Gaed foremost o’er the knowe, And or I wad anither jad, I’ll wallop in a tow. The weary pund, &c. When She Cam’ Ben She Bobbed O when she cam’ ben she bobbed fu’ law, O when she cam’ ben she bobbed fu’ law, And when she cam’ ben, she kiss’d Cockpen, And syne denied she did it at a’. And was na Cockpen right saucy witha’? And was na Cockpen right saucy witha’? In leaving the daughter of a lord, And kissin’ a collier lassie an’ a’! O never look down, my lassie, at a’, O never look down, my lassie, at a’, Thy lips are as sweet, and thy figure complete, As the finest dame in castle or ha’. Tho’ thou has nae silk, and holland sae sma’, Tho’ thou has nae silk, and holland sae sma’, Thy coat and thy sark are thy ain handiwark, And lady Jean was never sae braw. Scroggam, My Dearie There was a wife wonn’d in Cockpen, Scroggam; She brew’d gude ale for gentlemen; Sing auld Cowl lay ye down by me, Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. The gudewife’s dochter fell in a fever, Scroggam; The priest o’ the parish he fell in anither; Sing auld Cowl lay ye down by me, Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. They laid the twa i’ the bed thegither, Scroggam; That the heat o’ the tane might cool the tither; Sing auld Cowl, lay ye down by me, Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. My Collier Laddie