Inscription At Friars’ Carse Hermitage To the Memory of Robert Riddell. To Riddell, much lamented man, This ivied cot was dear; Wandr’er, dost value matchless worth? This ivied cot revere. There Was A Bonie Lass There was a bonie lass, and a bonie, bonie lass, And she lo’ed her bonie laddie dear; Till War’s loud alarms tore her laddie frae her arms, Wi’ mony a sigh and tear. Over sea, over shore, where the cannons loudly roar, He still was a stranger to fear; And nocht could him quail, or his bosom assail, But the bonie lass he lo’ed sae dear. Wee Willie Gray Tune—“Wee Totum Fogg.” Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet, Peel a willow wand to be him boots and jacket; The rose upon the breir will be him trews an’ doublet, The rose upon the breir will be him trews an’ doublet, Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet, Twice a lily-flower will be him sark and cravat; Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet, Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet. O Aye My Wife She Dang Me Chorus—O aye my wife she dang me, An’ aft my wife she bang’d me, If ye gie a woman a’ her will, Gude faith! she’ll soon o’er-gang ye. On peace an’ rest my mind was bent, And, fool I was! I married; But never honest man’s intent Sane cursedly miscarried. O aye my wife, &c. Some sairie comfort at the last, When a’ thir days are done, man, My pains o’ hell on earth is past, I’m sure o’ bliss aboon, man, O aye my wife, &c. Gude Ale Keeps The Heart Aboon Chorus—O gude ale comes and gude ale goes; Gude ale gars me sell my hose, Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon— Gude ale keeps my heart aboon! I had sax owsen in a pleugh, And they drew a’ weel eneugh: I sell’d them a’ just ane by ane— Gude ale keeps the heart aboon! O gude ale comes, &c. Gude ale hauds me bare and busy, Gars me moop wi’ the servant hizzie, Stand i’ the stool when I hae done— Gude ale keeps the heart aboon! O gude ale comes, &c. O Steer Her Up An’ Haud Her Gaun O steer her up, an’ haud her gaun, Her mither’s at the mill, jo; An’ gin she winna tak a man, E’en let her tak her will, jo. First shore her wi’ a gentle kiss, And ca’ anither gill, jo; An’ gin she tak the thing amiss, E’en let her flyte her fill, jo. O steer her up, an’ be na blate, An’ gin she tak it ill, jo, Then leave the lassie till her fate, And time nae langer spill, jo: Ne’er break your heart for ae rebute, But think upon it still, jo: That gin the lassie winna do’t, Ye’ll find anither will, jo. The Lass O’ Ecclefechan Tune—“Jack o’ Latin.”