Chorus-I tell you now this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
And ance for a' this ae night,
I winna let ye in, jo.
The snellest blast, at mirkest hours,
That round the pathless wand'rer pours
Is nocht to what poor she endures,
That's trusted faithless man, jo.
I tell you now, &c.
The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead,
Now trodden like the vilest weed
Let simple maid the lesson read
The weird may be her ain, jo.
I tell you now, &c.
The bird that charm'd his summer day,
Is now the cruel Fowler's prey;
Let witless, trusting, Woman say
How aft her fate's the same, jo!
I tell you now, &c.
I'LL AYE CA' IN BY YON TOWN
Air-"I'll gang nae mair to yon toun."
Chorus-I'll aye ca' in by yon town,
And by yon garden-green again;
I'll aye ca' in by yon town,
And see my bonie Jean again.
THERE'S nane sall ken, there's nane can guess What brings me back the gate again,
But she, my fairest faithfu' lass,
And stownlins we sall meet again.
I'll aye ca' in, &c.
She'll wander by the aiken tree,
When trystin time draws near again;
And when her lovely form I see,
O haith! she's doubly dear again.
I'll aye ca' in, &c.
O WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN
Tune-"I'll gang nae mair to yon toun."
Chorus-O wat ye wha's in yon town,
Ye see the e'enin sun upon,
The dearest maid's in yon town,
That e'ening sun is shining on.
Now haply down yon gay green shaw,
She wanders by yon spreading tree;
How blest ye flowers that round her blaw,
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e!
How blest ye birds that round her sing,
And welcome in the blooming year;
And doubly welcome be the Spring,
The season to my Jeanie dear.
O wat ye wha's, &c.
The sun blinks blythe in yon town,
Among the broomy braes sae green;
But my delight in yon town,
And dearest pleasure, is my Jean.
O wat ye wha's, &c.
Without my Fair, not a' the charms
O' Paradise could yield me joy;
But give me Jeanie in my arms
And welcome Lapland's dreary sky!
O wat ye wha's, &c.
My cave wad be a lover's bower,
Tho' raging Winter rent the air;
And she a lovely little flower,
That I wad tent and shelter there.
O wat ye wha's, &c.
O sweet is she in yon town,
The sinkin sun's gane down upon;
A fairer than's in yon town,
His setting beam ne'er shone upon.
O wat ye wha's, &c.
If angry Fate is sworn my foe,
And suff'ring I am doom'd to bear;
I careless quit aught else below,
But spare, O spare me Jeanie dear.
O wat ye wha's, &c.
For while life's dearest blood is warm, Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart, And she, as fairest is her form,
She has the truest, kindest heart.
O wat ye wha's, &c.
Ballads on Mr. Heron's Election, 1795
BALLAD FIRST
WHOM Will you send to London town,
To Parliament and a' that?
Or wha in a' the country round
The best deserves to fa' that?
For a' that, and a' that,
Thro' Galloway and a' that,
Where is the Laird or belted Knight
The best deserves to fa' that?
Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett,
(And wha is't never saw that?)
Wha ever wi' Kerroughtree met,
And has a doubt of a' that?
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
The independent patriot,
The honest man, and a' that.
Tho' wit and worth, in either sex,
Saint Mary's Isle can shaw that,
Wi' Dukes and Lords let Selkirk mix,
And weel does Selkirk fa' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
The independent commoner
Shall be the man for a' that.
But why should we to Nobles jouk,
And is't against the law, that?
For why, a Lord may be a gowk,
Wi' ribband, star and a' that,
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
A Lord may be a lousy loun,
Wi' ribband, star and a' that.
A beardless boy comes o'er the hills,
Wi' uncle's purse and a' that;
But we'll hae ane frae mang oursels,
A man we ken, and a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
For we're not to be bought and sold,
Like naigs, and nowt, and a' that.
Then let us drink-The Stewartry,
Kerroughtree's laird, and a' that,
Our representative to be,
For weel he's worthy a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Here's Heron yet for a' that!
A House of Commons such as he,
They wad be blest that saw that.
BALLAD SECOND-ELECTION DAY
Tune-" Fy, let us a' to the Bridal."
Fy, let us a' to Kirkcudbright,
For there will be bickerin there;
For Murray's light horse are to muster,
And O how the heroes will swear!
And there will be Murray, Commander,
And Gordon, the battle to win;
Like brothers they'll stand by each other,
Sae knit in alliance and kin.
And there will be black-nebbit Johnie,
The tongue o' the trump to them a';
An he get na Hell for his haddin,
The Deil gets na justice ava.
And there will be Kempleton's birkie,
A boy no sae black at the bane;
But as to his fine Nabob fortune,
We'll e'en let the subject alane.
And there will be Wigton's new Sheriff;
Dame Justice fu' brawly has sped,
She's gotten the heart of a Bushby,
But, Lord! what's become o' the head?
And there will be Cardoness, Esquire,
Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes;
A wight that will weather damnation,
The Devil the prey will despise.
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