At Kerroughtree, the Seat of Mr. Heron.

     Thou of an independent mind,
     With soul resolv’d, with soul resign’d;
     Prepar’d Power’s proudest frown to brave,
     Who wilt not be, nor have a slave;
     Virtue alone who dost revere,
     Thy own reproach alone dost fear—­
     Approach this shrine, and worship here.

The Cardin O’t, The Spinnin O’t

     I coft a stane o’ haslock woo’,
     To mak a wab to Johnie o’t;
     For Johnie is my only jo,
     I loe him best of onie yet.

     Chorus—­The cardin’ o’t, the spinnin’ o’t,
     The warpin’ o’t, the winnin’ o’t;
     When ilka ell cost me a groat,
     The tailor staw the lynin’ o’t.

     For tho’ his locks be lyart grey,
     And tho’ his brow be beld aboon,
     Yet I hae seen him on a day,
     The pride of a’ the parishen. 
     The cardin o’t, &c.

The Cooper O’ Cuddy

     Tune—­“Bab at the bowster.”

     Chorus—­We’ll hide the Cooper behint the door,
     Behint the door, behint the door,
     We’ll hide the Cooper behint the door,
     And cover him under a mawn, O.

     The Cooper o’ Cuddy came here awa,
     He ca’d the girrs out o’er us a’;
     An’ our gudewife has gotten a ca’,
     That’s anger’d the silly gudeman O.
     We’ll hide the Cooper, &c.

     He sought them out, he sought them in,
     Wi’ deil hae her! an’, deil hae him! 
     But the body he was sae doited and blin’,
     He wist na where he was gaun O.
     We’ll hide the Cooper, &c.

     They cooper’d at e’en, they cooper’d at morn,
     Till our gudeman has gotten the scorn;
     On ilka brow she’s planted a horn,
     And swears that there they sall stan’ O.
     We’ll hide the Cooper, &c.

The Lass That Made The Bed To Me

     When Januar’ wind was blawing cauld,
     As to the north I took my way,
     The mirksome night did me enfauld,
     I knew na where to lodge till day: 

     By my gude luck a maid I met,
     Just in the middle o’ my care,
     And kindly she did me invite
     To walk into a chamber fair.

     I bow’d fu’ low unto this maid,
     And thank’d her for her courtesie;
     I bow’d fu’ low unto this maid,
     An’ bade her make a bed to me;

     She made the bed baith large and wide,
     Wi’ twa white hands she spread it doun;
     She put the cup to her rosy lips,
     And drank—­“Young man, now sleep ye soun’.”

     Chorus—­The bonie lass made the bed to me,
     The braw lass made the bed to me,
     I’ll ne’er forget till the day I die,
     The lass that made the bed to me.

     She snatch’d the candle in her hand,
     And frae my chamber went wi’ speed;
     But I call’d her quickly back again,
     To lay some mair below my head: