SONG.

THO' FEW MY FIELDS.

Set to Music by Mr. Ross, Organist, Aberdeen.

THO' few my Fields, tho' small my Cot,
Sweet peace is inmate there:

Content, that gilds the Shepherd's lot,

Would gentle Laura be my love,

Could kingdoms envy'd be,

When her sweet kiss, and smile, would prove

A thousand worlds to me?

Come, Love, while Heaven's mild radiance shed, Unfolds each bloom to view,

How sweet the smiling lawn to tread,

Which Morn has gemm'd with dew!
Or, when opprest by Summer's heat,
Each wooer courts the shade ;

There let me hold Love's converse sweet,
With thee, my gentle Maid.

There let me tell how true my Love,
How long in vain I've sigh'd;

How every day a year must prove,

To Laura's heart let me address,

Soft yielding as she strays,

That wish, which words cannot express→→ Yet one soft sigh conveys.

8

NAPPIE ALE.

Has some kind Muse my breast inspir'd,
Wi' prayer sae lang an' sair desir'd;

Or has some wily elf been hir'd

To mak' me smirkie?

Na! nae sic trash ye'r breast has fir'd,—

COME a' ye wordy helps o' sang,

+

Ye Muses Nine, a kindly gang,

O gar ideas rise, ding dang,

At gleesome rate,

An' I sal let ye see, or lang,

Ise no be blate.

Help me to sing the choicest sap
That ever ream'd in glass or cap,
The kindly, sweet, refreshin' Nap,

That winna fail

To close his e'en that taks a drap

O' Nappy Ale.

Sound on the cod his pow he sets,
An' quite forleets baith care an' debts,
Wha wi' thy pith his weason wets,

An'

tak's his Ma't in,

While mony a bonny dream he gets

O' thy creatin'.

The droukin' rain may fluid the stack,
An' fa' in pailfu's thro' the thack,
Win's roar till ance the kaibers crack,

An' barn doors rattle,

He's bravely snorin' on his back,

An' scogs the battle.

Leese me upon the reamin' fare,
Can send Mishap ae hour frae care :
The wretch on warl's dirt sae gair,

As banns thy brewin',

His dreams are ay o' barn-yairds bare,

An' scenes o' ruin.

May tempest ne'er thy harvest bauk,
Nor blight e'er blast thee on the stauk,
Our E'enin' club will never crauk,

While thou's the cap in,

Nor Ale-wife want the ready cauk

To score the chappin.

By thee the gleefu' carles a'
Float ay their fashous cares awa;

Nae bilts, nor bruises cou'd befa'

Foul fa' the chield wha think'st a faut

To meddle wi' the juice o' maut,

An' can wi' shameless snout misca't ;

The saucy tyke,

Twad be a pity e'er he saw't,

Be what he like.

O' aughtpence drink! thou saul o' grain,
Thou maks the Bardie blyth anʼ fain:

Atween us twa', as we're our lane,

Tak' this frae me,

O' a' the Nine the foul a ane,

Inspires like thee.

The snail-slaw hours thou can beguile,
On Sorrow's cheek can raise a smile:
Whan birkies bourd wi' thee a while,

I ken't for certain,

Round the red ingle, rank an' file,

They'd ne'er be partin'.