sweet afton

the deilsawa wi the excise man

is there for honest poverty (a man's a man for a that)

ode to the haggis

my love is like a red red rose

I Is there for honest poverty
That hangs his head, an a' that?
The coward slave, we pass him by-
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Our toils obscure, an'a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.

2 What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an' a' that?
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine-
A man’s a man for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that,
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

3 Ye see yon birkie, ca'd 'a lord',
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that?
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a cuif for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that,
The man o' independent mind,
He looks an laughs at a' that.

4 A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that!
But an honest man's aboon his might-
Guid faith, he mauna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities, an' a' that,
The pith o' sense an' pride o' worth
Are higher rank than a' that.

5 Then let us pray that come it may
(As come it will for a' that)
That Sense and Worth o'er a' the earth
Shall bear the gree an' a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
It’s comin yet for a' that,
That man to man the world o'er
Shall brithers be for a' that.

SWEET AFTON

I Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes!
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise!
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream-
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream!

2 Thou stock dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den.
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear-
I charge you, disturb not my slumbering fair!

3 How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills!
There daily I wander, as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

4 How pleasant thy banks and green vallies below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;
There oft, as mild ev'ning sweeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

5 Thy crystal stream, Afton, hoe lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides!
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear
wave!

6 Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes!
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays!
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream-
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream!

THE DEILS AWA WI THE EXCISEMAN

1 The Deil cam fiddlin thro' the town,
And danc’d awa wi' th' Exciseman,
And ilka wife cries:- 'Auld Mahoun,
I wish you luck o' the prize. Man!

CHORUS -

The Deil's awa, the Deil's awa,
The Deil's awa, the Deil's awa,
The Deil's awa wi' th' Exciseman!
He’s danc’d awa. He's danc'd awa,
He’s danc'd awa wi' th' Exciseman!

2 'We'll mak our maut, and we'll brew our drink,
We’ll laugh, sing, and rejoice, man,
And monie braw thanks to the meikle black Deil,
That danc'd awa wi' th' Exciseman.

CHORUS

3 'There’s threesome reels, there's foursome reels,
There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man,
But the ae best dance ere cam to the land
Was The Deil's Awa wi' th' Exciseman!'

CHORUS

ODE TO THE HAGGIS

1 Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As lang's my arm.

2 The groaning trancher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

3 His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An’cut ye up wi’ ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

4 Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive:
Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve
Are bent like drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
'Bethankit!' hums.

5 Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricasse wad mak her spew
Wi’ perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

6 Poor devil! See him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro' bluidy flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

7 But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
The trambling earth resounds his tread,
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll make it whissle;
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sned
Like taps o' thrissle.,

8 Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o'fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware,
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a Haggis!

MY LOVE IS LIKE A RED, RED ROSE

TUNE: Major Graham

"And send the godly in a pet to pray." - Pope.

1 O Thou, that in the heavens does dwell, Wha, as it pleases best Thysel', Sends ane to heaven an' ten to hell, A' for Thy glory, And no for onie guid or ill They've done afore Thee !

2
I bless and praise Thy matchless might, When thousands Thou hast left in night, That I am here afore Thy sight, For gifts an' grace A burning and a shining light To a' this place.

3 What was I, or my generation, That I should get sic exaltation, I wha deserv'd most just damnation For broken laws, Sax thousand years ere my creation, Thro' Adam's cause.

4
When from my mither's womb I fell, Thou might hae plung'd me deep in hell, To gnash my gums, and weep and wail, In burnin lakes, Where damne'd devils roar and yell, Chain'd to their stakes.

5
Yet I am here a chosen sample, To show thy grace is great and ample; I'm here a pillar o' Thy temple, Strong as a rock, A guide, a buckler, and example, To a' Thy flock.

6
O Lord, Thou kens what zeal I bear, When drinkers drink, an' swearers swear, An' singing here, an' dancin there, Wi' great and sma' ; For I am keepit by Thy fear Free frae them a'.

7
But yet, O Lord! confess I must, At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust: An' sometimes, too, in warldly trust, Vile self gets in ; But Thou remembers we are dust, Defil'd wi' sin.

8.O Lord ! yestreen, Thou kens, wi' Meg - Thy pardon I sincerely beg ; O ! may't ne'er be a livin plague To my dishonour, An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg Again upon her.

9
Besides, I farther maun allow, Wi' Leezie's lass, three times I trow - But Lord, that Friday I was fou, When I cam near her; Or else, Thou kens, Thy servant true Wad never steer her.

10
Maybe Thou lets this fleshly thorn Buffet Thy servant e'en and morn, Lest he owre proud and high shou'd turn, That he's sae gifted: If sae, Thy han' maun e'en be borne, Until Thou lift it.

11
Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place, For here Thou has a chosen race, An' blast their name, Wha brings Thy elders to disgrace An' public shame.

12
Lord, mind Gaw'n Hamilton's deserts; He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at cartes, Yet has sae mony takin arts, Wi' great an' sma', Frae God's ain priest the people's hearts He steals awa.

13
An' when we chasten'd him therefor, Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, An' set the warld in a roar O' laughing at us; -- Curse Thou his basket and his store, Kail an' potatoes.

14
Lord, hear my earnest cry and pray'r, Against that Presbyt'ry o' Ayr; Thy strong right hand, Lord make it bare Upo' their heads; Lord visit them, an' dinna spare, For their misdeeds.

15
O Lord my God! that glib-tongu'd Aitken, My vera heart an' flesh

My vera heart an' flesh are quakin, To think how we stood sweatin, shakin, An' p---'d wi' dread, While he, wi' hingin lip an' snakin, Held up his head.

16
Lord, in Thy day o' vengeance try him, Lord, visit them wha did employ him, And pass not in Thy mercy by them, Nor hear their pray'r, But for Thy people's sake destroy them, An' dinna spare.

17
But, Lord, remember me an' mine Wi' mercies temporal and divine, That I for grace an' gear may shine, Excell'd by nane, And a' the glory shall be Thine, Amen, Amen!