"Pipe a song about a Lamb!"
So I piped with merry cheer.
"Piper, pipe that song again;"
So I piped: he wept to hear.

"Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;
Sing thy songs of happy cheer!"
So I sang the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.

"Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book, that all may read."
So he vanish'd from my sight;
And I plucked a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen,
And I stain'd the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.

THE LAMB

(From the same)

Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Gave thee life, and bade thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice?

Little lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee?

Little lamb, I'll tell thee;

Little lamb, I'll tell thee:

He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and He is mild,
He became a little child.

I a child and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.
Little lamb, God bless thee!
Little lamb, God bless thee!

NIGHT

(From the same)

The sun descending in the west,
The evening star does shine,
The birds are silent in their nest,
And I must seek for mine.

The moon, like a flower

In heaven's high bower,
With silent delight,

They're douff and dowie at the best

Wi' a' their variorium.
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Their allegros and a' the rest,
They canna please a Scottish taste,
Compar'd 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

O, Tullochgorum's my delight,

To spend the night in mirth and glee,

The reel o' Tullochgorum.

It gars us a' in ane unite,

And any sumph2 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',

As lang as we hae breth to draw,
And dance, till we be like to fa',

The reel of Tullochgorum.

There needs na' be sae great a phrase,
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays,
I wadna gi'e our ain strathspeys3
For half a hundred score o' 'em.
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Douff and dowie, douff and dowie,

To the reel of Tullochgorum?

5

May choicest blessings still attend Each honest open-hearted friend, And calm and quiet be his end,

5

10

1 When Skinner wrote this poem, Tullochgorum was not a song but the name of a tune to a Highland reel. Burns pronounced Skinner's Tullochgorum "the best Scotch song Scotland ever saw."

Fool, softy. A Scotch dance resembling the reel. • Dull. Doleful.

And a' that's good watch o'er him! 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 be never want a groat That's fond of 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 'im! May dool and sorrow be his chance, Wi' a' the ills that come frae France, Whae'er he be, that winna dance The reel of Tullochgorum.

Jane Elliot

1727-1805

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST

Will ye gang down the water side, And see the waves sae sweetly glide Beneath the hazels spreading wide,

The moon it shines fu' clearly.

I was bred up at nae sic school,
My shepherd lad to play the fool;
And a' the day to sit in dool,
And naebody to see me.

Ye shall get gowns and ribbons meet,
Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet,
And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep,
And ye shall be my dearie.

If ye'll but stand to what ye've said, I'se gang wi' you my shepherd lad; And ye may row me in your plaid, And I shall be your dearie.

5

10

15

20

1 Ewes.

2 Knolls.

The brook rolls.

And he's clappit down in our gudeman's chair,
The wee, wee German lairdie!

And he's brought fouth o' foreign trash,
And dibbled them in his yardie:

He's pu'd the rose o' English loons,
And brake the harp o' Irish clowns,
But our Scot's thistle will jag his thumbs,
The wee, wee German lairdie!

Come up amang the Highland hills,
Thou wee, wee German lairdie,
And see how Charlie's' lang-kail thrive,
That he dibbled in his yardie:

And if a stock ye daur to pu',
Or haud the yoking o' a pleugh,
We'll break your sceptre o'er your mou',
Thou wee bit German lairdie!

10

15

20

20

To the land o' the leal.

5

And O! we grudged her sair

For a wee bit German lairdie! And we've the trenching blades o' weir, Wad glib ye o' your German gear,

30

But sorrow's sel' wears past, John,

And pass ye neath the claymore's sheer Thou feckless German lairdie!

And joy's a-coming fast, John, The joy that's aye to last

In the land o' the leal.

Sae dear's the joy was bought, John, Sae free the battle fought, John, That sinfu' man e'er brought,

To the land o' the leal.

O, dry your glistening e'e, John!
My saul langs to be free, John,
And angels beckon me

To the land o' the leal.

O, haud ye leal and true, John! Your day it's wearin' through, John, And I'll welcome you

To the land o' the leal.

Now fare-ye-weel, my ain John,
This warld's cares are vain, John,
We'll meet, and we'll be fain,
In the land o' the leal.

ANONYMOUS