OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Des Moines Register/1917/Hahnen, Des Moines Shoe Pioneer, Dies

Henry Hahnen (1841-1917) in Des Moines Tribune on August 6, 1917.
Hahnen, Des Moines Shoe Pioneer, Dies
Henry Hahnen, pioneer Des Moines shoeman, died of typhoid pneumonia at his home, 1070 Seventh street, at 4 o'clock this morning after an illness of three weeks. Mr. Hahnen was well known to many of the old settlers of this city. He was born October 27, 1841 in Wurtemburg, Germany, and at 12 years of age came to the United States in a sailing vessel. He located in Lafayette, Indiana and then came to Des Moines, where he learned the boot and shoe business, which he had always followed. In 1866 he married Miss Sophia Becker. Until his recent illness, Mr. Hahnen occupied a prominent place in St. John's Lutheran church. The deceased is survived by his wife and ten children, Mrs. Rose Davis, Mrs. Anna Wirt, Ed Hahnen, Mrs. Carl Niendorf, Miss Minnie Hahnen, Mrs. D. D. Ransberg of Minneapolis, Mrs. C. E. Englebeck of Milwaukee and Will Hahnen of Joplin, Missouri. There are also twelve grandchildren.
# The Evening Star

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Evening Star."
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "The Evening Star", a poem by Thomas Campbell
* "The Evening Star", a poem by Mary Caroline Denver and Jane Campbell Denver
* "The Evening Star", a poem by Richard Watson Gilder
* "The Evening Star", a poem by Amanda Theodosia Jones
* "The Evening Star", a poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon 'How beautiful the twilight sky'
* "The Evening Star", a poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon 'I come from the caves of the silent sea'
* "The Evening Star", a poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon 'Ah, loveliest! that through my casement gleaming'
* "The Evening Star", a poem by John Leyden
* "The Evening Star", a poem by Edith Willis Linn
* "The Evening Star", a poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, later titled "Chrysaor"
* "The Evening Star", a poem by Farnsworth Wright
# Discontent

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Discontent."
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This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "Discontent", a poem by Elizabeth Barrett Barrett
* "Discontent", a poem by Julia Caroline Dorr
* "Discontent", a poem by Edith Willis Linn
# Glimpses

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Glimpses."
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This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "Glimpses", a poem by Annie Lanman Angier
* "Glimpses", a poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
* "Glimpses", a poem by Edith Willis Linn
# Bravery

This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "Bravery", a poem by Edith Willis Linn
* "Bravery", a poem by Clara A. Merrill
# The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night/Volume 3/Index

INDEX.
# Neil Gow's Fareweel (1821, Glasgow)

There are differences between the titles given on the front page and those at the head of each song; where this is the case, the latter have been used.
Neil Gow's Fareweel.
Blythe and happy are we.
My heart's in the Highlands.
THE BRAW WOOER.
Hey for a Lass wi' a Tocher.
GLASGOW: printed for the booksellers.
1821.
* Neil Gow's Fareweel
* Blythe an' Happy Are We
* My Heart's in the Highlands
* Hey for a Lass Wi' a Tocher
* The Braw Wooer
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Blythe and Happy Are We

* "Blythe and happy are we", in For a' that and a' that (1818), a chapbook printed in Edinburgh
* "Blythe an' Happy Are We", in Neil Gow's Fareweel (1821), a chapbook printed in Glasgow
* "The Evening Shade", in The Book of Scottish Song (1843), edited by Alexander Whitelaw
# Neil Gow's Fareweel

* "Neil Gow's Fareweel", in Six popular Scotch songs (n.d.), a chapbook printed in Kirkcudbright
* "Fareweel to whisky", in Tibby Fowler (n.d.), a chapbook printed in Glasgow
* "Neil Gow's Fareweel", in Neil Gow's Fareweel (1821), a chapbook printed in Glasgow
* "Neil Gow's fareweel", in Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch (1823), a chapbook printed in Glasgow
# Tibby Fowler/Fareweel to whisky

FAREWEEL TO WHISKY.
You've surely heard o' famous Neil, The man that play'd the fiddle weel I wat he was a canty chiel, And dearly lo'ed the whisky, O. And ay since he wore tartan hose, He dearly lo'ed the Athol brose, And wae he was, you may suppose, To play fareweel to whisky, O.
Alake, quoth Neil, I'm frail and auld, I find my bluid growing unco cauld, I think 'twad mak me blythe and bauld A wee drap Highland whisky, O. And yet the doctors a' agree, That whisky's no the thing for me; ​Saul! quoth Neil, they'll spoil my glee, Should they part me and whisky, O.
Tho' I can get baith wine and ale, And find my head and fingers hale, I'll be content, tho' legs should fail, To play fareweel to whisky, O. But still I think on auld lang syne, When Paradise our friends did tyne, Because something ran in their min', Forbid, like Highland whisky, O.
Come a' ye powers of Music, come, I find my heart grows unco glum, My fiddle strings will no play bum, To say fareweel to whisky, O. I'll tak my fiddle in my hand,
And screw the strings up while they stand,
To mak a lamentation grand, On gude auld Highland whisky, O.
FINIS
# Tibby Fowler/The thorn

THE THORN.
From the white blossom'd sloe dear Chloe requested, A sprig her fair breast to adorn: No, by heaven! I exclaim'd, may I perish, If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn.
Then I show'd her a ring, and implor'd her to marry, She blush'd like the dawning of morn;
Yes, I'll consent, she reply'd, if you'll promise, That no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn. No, by heaven! &c.
# Tibby Fowler/Up in the morning early

UP IN THE MORNING EARLY.
Cauld blaws the win' frae north to south And drift is driving sairly; The sheep are couring i' the heugh, O sirs! it's winter fairly. Now up in the morning's no for me, Up in the morning early; I'd rather gang supperless to my bed, Than rise in the morning early.
​Rude rairs the blast amang the woods, The branches tirlin barely, Amang the chimney-taps it thuds, And frost is nippin sairly. Now up in the morning's no for me, Up in the morning early; To sit a' night I'd rather agree, Than rise in the morning early.
The sun peeps o'er yon southland hill, Like ony timorous carlie; Just blinks a wee, then sinks again, And that we find severely. Now up in morning's no for me, Up in the morning early; When snaw blaws into the chimley cheek, Wha'd rise in the morning early.
Nae linties lilt on hedge or bush, Poor things, they suffer sairly; In cauldrife quarters a' the night, A' day they feed but sparely. Now up in the morning's no for me, Up in the morning early; No fate can be waur, in winter time, Than rise in the morning early:
​A cosey house, and cantie wife, Keeps ay a body cheerly; And pantry stow'd wi' meal and maut, It answers unco rarely. But up in the morning, na, na, na, Up in the morning early; The gowans maun glent on bank and brae, When I rise in the morning early.
# Tibby Fowler/Tibby Fowler

TIBBIE FOWLER.
Tibbie Fowler o' the glen, There's o'er monie wooin at her, Tibbie Fowler o' the glen, There's o'er monie wooin at her. Wooin at her, pu'in at her, Courtin at her, canna get her; Filthy elf, its for her pelf, That a' the lads are wooin at her.
Ten cam east, and ten cam west, Ten cam rowin o'er the water; Twa cam down the lang-dyke side, There's twa and thirty wooin at her. Wooin at her, &c.
There's seven but, and seven ben, Seven in the pantry wi' her; Twenty head about the door, There's ane-and-forty wooin at her. Wooin at her, &c.
She's got pendles in her lugs, Cockle shells wad set her better; ​High-heel'd shoon and siller tags, And a' the lads are wooin at her. Wooin at her. &c.
Be a lassie e'er sae black, An she hae the name oʻsiller, Set her upo' Tintoc tap, The wind will blaw a man till her. Wooin at her, &c.
Be a lassic e'er sae fair, An' she want the pennie siller, A flie may fell her in the air, Before a man be even till her. Wooin at her, &c.
# Tibby Fowler

Dated from internal and external evidence.
TIBBY FOWLER.
Up in the morning early.
THE THORN.
DONNOCHT-HEAD.
Fareweel to Whisky.
GLASGOW:
PRINTED FOR THE BOOKSELLERS.
* Tibby Fowler
* Up in the morning early
* The thorn
* Donnocht-head
* Fareweel to whisky
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Neil Gow's Fareweel (1821, Glasgow)/Neil Gow's Fareweel

NEIL GOW’S FAREWELL.
You’ve surely heard o’ famous Neil, The man that play’d the fiddle weel, I wat he was a canty chiel, And dearly loo’d the whisky, O. And ay since he wore tartan hose, He dearly loo’d the Athol brose; And wae was he, you may suppose, To play fareweel to whisky, O.
Alake, quoth Neil, I’m frail and auld, And find my bluid grows unco cauld; I think ‘twad mak me blythe and bauld, A wee drap Highland whisky, O. And yet the doctors a’ agree That whisky’s no the drink for me; Saul! quoth Neil, ’twill spoil my glee, Shou’d they part me and whisky, O.
Tho’ I can get baith wine and ale, And find my head and fingers hale, I’ll be content, tho’ legs shou’d fail. To play fareweel to whisky, O. But still I think on auld langsyne, ​When Paradise our friends did tyne, Because something ran in their min’, Forbid, like Highland whisky, O.
Come a‘ ye pow‘rs o‘ Music, come! I find my heart grows unco glum, My fiddle strings will no play bum, To say fareweel to whisky, O. I‘ll take my fiddle in my hand, And screw the strings up while they’ll stand, To mak a lamentation grand. On gude auld Highland whisky, O.
# Neil Gow's Fareweel (1821, Glasgow)/Blythe an' Happy Are We

BLYTHE AN’ HAPPY ARE WE.
Blythe, blythe, an‘ happy are we, Cauld care is flegg’d awa; This is but ae night o’ our lives. An’ wha wou‘d grudge tho‘ it were twa. The ev’ning shade around is spread, The chilling tempest sweeps the sky; We’re kindly met, an’ warmly set, An’ streams o’ nappy rinnin’ by. Blythe, &c.
While gettin fou, we’re great, I trow, We scorn misfortune’s greatest bangs; ​The magic bowl can lift the soul Aboon the warld and a’ its wrangs. Blythe, &c.
The days o’ man are but a span, This mortal life a passing dream, Nought to illume the dreary gloom, Save love an’ friendship’s sacred glean Blythe, &c.
Then toom your glass to my sweet lass, And niest we’ll turn it o’er to thine: The glowin’ breast that loes them best Shall dearest ever be to mine. Blythe, &c.
An’ here’s to you, my friend sae true, May discord ne’er a feeling wound! An’ should we flyte, ne’er harbour spite, But in a bowl be’t quickly drown’d. Blythe, &c.
Now rap and ring, an’ gar them bring The biggest stoupfu’ yet we’ve seen; Why should we part when hand an’ heart At ilka bumper grows mair keen? Blythe, &c.
# Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch (1823)/Neil Gow's fareweel

NEIL GOW'S FAREWEEL.
You've surely heard o’ famous Neil, The man that play'd the fiddle weel, I wat he was a canty chiel, And dearly loo'd the whisky, O And ay since he wore tartan hose, He dearly ļoo'd the Athol brose; And wae was he, you may suppose. To play fareweel to whisky O.
​Alake! quoth Neil, I'm frail and auld, And find my bluid grows unco cauld; I think 'twad mak me blyth and bauld, A wee drap Highland whisky, O, And yet the doctors a' agree That whisky's no the drink for me; Saul! quoth Neil, 'twill spoil my glee. Should they part me and whisky, O.
Tho' I can get baith wine and ale, And find my head and fingers hale. I'll be content, tho' legs shou'd fail, To play fareweel to whisky, O. But still I think on auld langsyne, When Paradise our friends did tyne, Because something ran in their min,' Forbid, like Highland whisky, O.
Come a’ ye pow'rs o' Music, come! I' find my heart grows unco glam, My fiddle strings will no play bum, To say fareweel to whisky, O, I'll take my fiddle in my hand, And screw the strings up while they'll stand, To mak a lamentation grand, On gude auld Highland whisky, O.
# Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch (1823)

Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch
To which is added,
THE HIGHLAND PLAID.
Neil Gow's Fareweel,
JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO,
MARIA.
GLASGOW: Published and Sold, Wholesale and Retail, by R. Hutchison, Booksellers, 19. Saltmarket.
1823.
* Roy's wife of Aldivalloch
* The highland plaid
* Neil Gow's fareweel
* John Anderson, my Jo
* Maria
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch (1823)/Roy's wife of Aldivalloch

ROY'S WIFE OF ALDIVALLOCH.
Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, Wat ye how she cheated me, As I cam o'er the braes of Balloch.
She vow’d, she swore she wad be mine; She said she lo'd me best of ony; But oh! the fickle faithless quean, She's ta'en the carle, and left her Johnie. Roy's wife &c.
O she was a canty quean. Weel could she dance the Highland walloch; How happy I, had she been mine, Or I'd been Roy of Aldivalloch. Roy's wife, &c,
Her hair sae fair, her een sae clear, Her wee bit mou' sae sweet and bonnie: To me she ever will be dear, Though she's for ever left her Johnie. Roy's wife. &c.
​Tho' Roy's aulder thrice than I, Perhaps his days 'ill no be mony, And when the carle's dead and gane, She then may turn her thoughts on Johnny. Roy's wife &c.
# Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch (1823)/The highland plaid

THE HIGHLAND PLAID.
Lowland lassie will ye go, Whare the hills are clad wi' snow, Whare beneath the icy steep, The hardy shepherd tends his sheep; Ill nor wae shall thee betide, When row'd within my Highland plaid.
Soon the voice of cheary spring Will gar a' our plantins ring, Soon our bonny heather braes, Will put on their summer claes; On the mountain's sunny side We'll lean us on my Highland plaid.
When the simmer spreads the flow'rs Busks the glens in leafy bow'rs, Then we'll seek the caller shade, Lean us on the primrose bed; While the burning hours preside, I'll screen thee wi' my Highland plaid.
Then we'll leave the sheep and goat, I will launch the bonny boat, ​Skim the loch in canty glee, Rest the oars to pleasure thee; When chilly breezes sweep the tide, I'll hap thee wi' my Highland plaid.
Lowland lads may dress mair fine, Woo in words mair saft then mine, A' my boast's an honest heart; Whilk shall ever be my pride, O row thee in my Highland plaid.
“ Bonny lad ye've been sae leal, “ My heart would break at our farewell, “ Lang your love has made me fain, “ Take me-take me for your ain!” Cross the firth, away they glide, Young Donald and his Lowland bride.
# Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch (1823)/John Anderson, my Jo

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.
John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, ​Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your head’s turned bald, John, Your locks are like the snow, Yet, blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, When nature first began To try her cannie hand, John, Her master-work was man: And you amang them a’ John, Sae trig frae tap to toe, She proved to be nae journey-work, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, Ye were my first conceit, And ye need na think it strange, John, Though I ca’ ye trim and neat; Though some folks say ye’re auld, John, I never think you so, But I think ye’re aye the same to me, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, We’ve seen our bairns’ bairns, And yet, my dear John Anderson, I’m happy in your arms; And sae are ye in mine John, I’m sure ye’ll ne’er say no, ​Though the days are gane that we have seen, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, What pleasure does it gie, To see sae many sprouts, John, Spring up ’tween you and me; And ilka lad and lass, John, In our footsteps to go, Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, Frae year to year we’ve past, And soon that year maun come, John, Will bring us to our last; But let na that affright us, John, Our hearts were ne’er our foe, While in innocent delight we lived, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither, And money a cantie day, John, We’ve had with ane anither; Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we’ll go, And we’ll sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo.
# Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch (1823)/Maria

MARIA.
'Twas near a thicket's calm re‘reat, Under a poplar tree, Maria chose her lonely seat, To mourn her sorrows free. Her lovely form was sweet to view As dawn at opening day; But, ah! she mourn'd her love not true, And wept her cares away.
The brook flow'd gently at her feet, In murmurs smooth along; Her pipe, which once she tun’d so sweet, Had now forgot its song. No more to charm the vale she tries, For grief has fill'd her breast; Fled are the joys she us'd to prize, And fled with them her rest.
Poor hepless maid! who can behold Thy anguish so severe, Or hear thy love-lorn story told, Without a pitying tear! Maria, hapless maid, adieu! Thy sorrows soon must cease; Soon heaven will take a maid so true To everlasting peace.
FINIS.
# Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch (1800)

Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch,
WITH THE
HAPPY RELIEF;
OR,
O'er the MUIR amang the HEATHER:
To which are added,
THE THREE JOLLY COLLIERS.
The JOYFUL WIDOWER.
MERRY MAY THE MAID BE.
G L A S G O W,
Printed by J. & M. ROBERTSON, Saltmarket, 1800.
* Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch
* The Happy Relief
* The Three Jolly Colliers
* The Joyful Widower
* Merry May the Maid Be
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch (1800)/Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch

ROY'S WIFE OF ALDIVALLOCH.
ROY'S wife of Aldivalloch, Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, Ken ye how she cheated me, As I came by the Braes of Balloch.
She vow'd, she swore, she wad be mine, and said, she lo'ed me best of ony: But, Oh! the fickle, faithless quean, she's ta'en the carle and left her Johny. Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, &c. But. Oh! the fickle, faithless quean, she's ta'en the carle and left her Johny.
Ay she was a canty quean,
and weel cou'd dance the Highland walloch: Happy I, had she been mine. or I'd been Roy of Aldivalloch. Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, &c. Happy I, had she been mine, or I'd been Roy of Aldivalloch.
Her face sae fair her een sae clear, her wee bit mou' was aye sae bonny; To me she ever shall prove dear, tho' she's for ever left her Johny. Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, &c. To me she ever shall prove dear tho' she's for ever left her Johny.
# Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch (1800)/The Happy Relief

THE HAPPY RELIEF: OR O'er the MUIR amang the HEATHER.
MARY mourn'd in formal weeds, the death of Roy of Aldivalloch, While her soul with passion burn'd. for Johny and the Braes of Balloch.
Chor. O'er the muir amang the heather, Chor. O'er the muir amang the heather, Chor. O the days that I have seen, Chor. Amang the bonny blooming heather,
Her curling locks wav'd in the wind, the tears stream'd down her cheeks sae bonny, And ay the burden o' her song, was wae's my heart I've lost my Johny. O'er the muir. &c. And ay the burden o' her song, was waes my heart I've lost my Johny.
O curse upon the warld's pelf, that won my Mammy and my Daddy; Wha gae me to auld Roy's arms, and bade me leave my ain true laddie. O'er the muir. &c. Wha gae me to auld Roy's arms; and bade me leave my ain true laddie.
But gin I had my Johny here, In spite o' Mam and canker'd daddy, ​I'd clasp him to this faithfu' breast, and row him in my tartan plaidie. O'er the muir, &c. I'd clasp him to this faithfu' breast, and row him in my tartan plaidie.
Johny heard her waefu' 'plaint, like light'ning flew across the Balloch, Crying, tak me to thy faithfu' arms, thou leelest lass in Aldivalloch. O'er the muir, &c. Johny met wi' Roy's wife, and they gaed o'er the muir the gither.
# Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch (1800)/The Three Jolly Colliers

The THREE Jolly COLLIERS.
WE are three jolly Colliers, that mind the collier way; Our ships they are well fitted out from the shore to the British sea; We hew our coals and drive them, we'll make all the rocks to roar, The seas are daily craving, craving, what can Colliers e'er do more.
My name is Captain Blanden, my love sweet Molly Frow, To be your undertaker; each morning to wait on you, Upon my lovely Molly, who is heart's delight; ​Whose lovely sparkling eyes, do outshine the stars by night.
O some call me the sergeant, because I am six foot high: I am fitting for the army, where all kinds of bullets fly; But if I were in Britain, and my true love along with me, With every thing that's fitting, to serve his royal Majesty.
Adieu my lovely Molly, although her portion is but small, I might have sweet-hearts many, if I could maintain them all: We'll go where liquor's plenty, we'll roll boys from side to side, Her fortune ne'er shall daunton me, I'm young and the world's wide.
You curious smiths and founders, that daily work upon the fire; Whose genius with wonders, makes others to admire: Fine jewellers and smelters, refiners of the purest gold, Will say 'tis jolly Colliers all other trades they do uphold.
Come fill up your bumpers, and let the music sweetly sound; Here's a health to jolly Colliers who daily mine below the ground: ​Likewise to jolly seamen that sail all the world round. The supporters of our nation, the honour of our King and Crown.
Here's a health unto our army, the British boys by sea and land, To please the lovely lasses, we always do run on command: For Pady Burn is my name, the same I'll ne'er deny. From the county of Wicklow I came, and its there I'll live and die.
# Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch (1800)/The Joyful Widower

THE JOYFUL WIDOWER.
TUNE—MAGGY LAUDER.
I Married with a scolding Wife, the fourteenth of November, She made me weary of my life, by one unruly member. I long did bear the heavy yoke, and many griefs attended. But to my comfort be it spoke, now, now her life is ended.
We liv'd full one and twenty years, as man and wife together. At length from me her course she steer'd, and went I know not whether. ​Would I could guess, I do profess, I speak and do not flatter, Of all the women in the world, I never would come at her.
Her body is bestowed well, a handsome grave doth bide her! But sure her soul is not in hell, the de'il would not abide her. I rather think she is aloft, and imitating thunder, For why; methinks I hear her voice, rending the clouds asunder.
# Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch (1800)/Merry May the Maid Be

MERRY MAY the MAID BE.
MERRY may the maid be, that marries the miller, For foul day and fair day, he's ay bringing till her; Has ay a penny in his purse, for dinner and for supper; And gin she please, a good fat cheese, and lumps of yellow butter.
When Jamie first did woo me, I spier'd what was his calling, Fair maid, says he, O come and see, you're welcome to my dwelling: Though I was shy, yet I could spy, the truth of what he told me; ​And that his house was warm and couth, and room in it to hold me.
Behind the door a bag of meal, and in the kist was plenty Of good hard cakes, his mither bakes, and bannocks were na' scanty; A good fat sow, a sleeky cow were standing in the byre; Whilst lazy puss, with mealy mouse, were playing at the fire.
Good signs are these, my mither says, and bids me tak the miller; For foul day and fair day, he's ay bringing till her: For meal and ma't she disna want, nor ony thing that's dainty, And now an then a keckling hen, to lay her eggs in plenty.
In winter when the wind and rain blaws o'er the barn and byre; The miller by a clean hearth-stane, beside a ranting fire, He sits and cracks, and tells his tale, o'er ale that is right nappy; Who'd be a Queen that gaudy thing, when a miller's wife's sae happy.
Glasgow, Printed by J. & M. Robertson, Saltmarket, 1799.