Part 3

’Tis this in Nelly pleases me, ’Tis this enchants my soul; For absolutely in my breast She reigns without control.

Song—O Tibbie, I Hae Seen The Day

Tune—“Invercauld’s Reel, or Strathspey.”

Choir.—O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, Ye wadna been sae shy; For laik o’ gear ye lightly me, But, trowth, I care na by.

Yestreen I met you on the moor, Ye spak na, but gaed by like stour; Ye geck at me because I’m poor, But fient a hair care I. O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.

When coming hame on Sunday last, Upon the road as I cam past, Ye snufft and ga’e your head a cast— But trowth I care’t na by. O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, Because ye hae the name o’ clink, That ye can please me at a wink, Whene’er ye like to try. O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.

But sorrow tak’ him that’s sae mean, Altho’ his pouch o’ coin were clean, Wha follows ony saucy quean, That looks sae proud and high. O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.

Altho’ a lad were e’er sae smart, If that he want the yellow dirt, Ye’ll cast your head anither airt, And answer him fu’ dry. O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.

But, if he hae the name o’ gear, Ye’ll fasten to him like a brier, Tho’ hardly he, for sense or lear, Be better than the kye. O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.

But, Tibbie, lass, tak’ my advice: Your daddie’s gear maks you sae nice; The deil a ane wad speir your price, Were ye as poor as I. O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.

There lives a lass beside yon park, I’d rather hae her in her sark, Than you wi’ a’ your thousand mark; That gars you look sae high. O Tibbie, I hae seen the day, &c.

Song—I Dream’d I Lay

I dream’d I lay where flowers were springing Gaily in the sunny beam; List’ning to the wild birds singing, By a falling crystal stream: Straight the sky grew black and daring; Thro’ the woods the whirlwinds rave; Tress with aged arms were warring, O’er the swelling drumlie wave.

Such was my life’s deceitful morning, Such the pleasures I enjoyed: But lang or noon, loud tempests storming A’ my flowery bliss destroy’d. Tho’ fickle fortune has deceiv’d me— She promis’d fair, and perform’d but ill, Of mony a joy and hope bereav’d me— I bear a heart shall support me still.

Song—In The Character Of A Ruined Farmer

Tune—“Go from my window, Love, do.”

The sun he is sunk in the west, All creatures retired to rest, While here I sit, all sore beset, With sorrow, grief, and woe: And it’s O, fickle Fortune, O!

The prosperous man is asleep, Nor hears how the whirlwinds sweep; But Misery and I must watch The surly tempest blow: And it’s O, fickle Fortune, O!

There lies the dear partner of my breast; Her cares for a moment at rest: Must I see thee, my youthful pride, Thus brought so very low! And it’s O, fickle Fortune, O!

There lie my sweet babies in her arms; No anxious fear their little hearts alarms; But for their sake my heart does ache, With many a bitter throe: And it’s O, fickle Fortune, O!

I once was by Fortune carest: I once could relieve the distrest: Now life’s poor support, hardly earn’d My fate will scarce bestow: And it’s O, fickle Fortune, O!

No comfort, no comfort I have! How welcome to me were the grave! But then my wife and children dear— O, wither would they go! And it’s O, fickle Fortune, O!

O whither, O whither shall I turn! All friendless, forsaken, forlorn! For, in this world, Rest or Peace I never more shall know! And it’s O, fickle Fortune, O!

Tragic Fragment

All devil as I am—a damned wretch, A hardened, stubborn, unrepenting villain, Still my heart melts at human wretchedness; And with sincere but unavailing sighs I view the helpless children of distress: With tears indignant I behold the oppressor Rejoicing in the honest man’s destruction, Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime.— Ev’n you, ye hapless crew! I pity you; Ye, whom the seeming good think sin to pity; Ye poor, despised, abandoned vagabonds, Whom Vice, as usual, has turn’d o’er to ruin. Oh! but for friends and interposing Heaven, I had been driven forth like you forlorn, The most detested, worthless wretch among you! O injured God! Thy goodness has endow’d me With talents passing most of my compeers, Which I in just proportion have abused— As far surpassing other common villains As Thou in natural parts has given me more.

Tarbolton Lasses, The

If ye gae up to yon hill-tap, Ye’ll there see bonie Peggy; She kens her father is a laird, And she forsooth’s a leddy.