The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser.
Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1833-05-07 00:00:00

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PITY THE LADS THAT ARE FREE.

(FBOM BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.)
Tune—"l hae a wife o' my ain,"—Sting on Tweedside by
Christopher North to Mary Riddle, April 23, 1833.

Pity the lads that are free,
Pity the chields that are single ;
For gude sake ! tak pity on me,
I'm teased night an' day wi' Jean Pringle.
For lasses I carena a preen,
My heart's my ain an' I'm cheery,
An', were't na for that cutty Jean,
I'd sleep as soun' as a peene !
What's beauty !—it a' lies in taste !
For nane o't wad 1 gie a bodle !
But hers, hauntin' me like a ghaist,
Is whiles like to turn my noddle !
She's wooers—but what's that to me ?
They're waleome to dance a' about her;
Yet I like na her smilin' sae slee
To lang Sandy Lingles the souter!
Yestreen I cam in frae the plew,
The lasses were a' busy spinnin' ;
I stoitered as if I'd been fou,
For Jeanie a sang was beginnin'..
I hae heard fifty maids sing,
Whiles ane, an' whiles a' thegither ;
But nane did the starting tears bring
Till she sung the " Braes of Balquhither."
Last Sunday, when gaun to the kirk,
1 met wi' my auld- aunty Beenie ;
I looked as stupid's a stirk
When simply she said—" How is Jeanie ?"
An' at e'en, when 1 wi' the rest,
Was carritched baith Larger an' Single,
When speered—Wham we suld like best ?
I stammered out—" Young Jeanie Pringle !"
Last ouk I gaed in to the fair, '
To wair out my llallowmas guinea ; •
When wha suld I fa' in wi' there,
A' dinkit out finely—but Jeanie ;
1 couldna gang by her for shame,
I couldna but speak; else be saucy,
Sae I had to inter her hame,
An' buy a silk snood to the lassie.
It's no but she's baith gude an' fair,
It's no but she's winsome an' bonnie ;
Her een, glancing 'neath gowden hair,
Are brighter, I daursay, than ony.
But pawkie een's naetlung to me,
Of gowd locks I want nae the straikin' ;
Folk speak about love—but they'll see,
For ance, by my faith ! they're mistaken.
I promised the lasses a spree,
I promised the lads a paradin',
I canna wed hae't—let me see— •
Unless I get up a bit vraddin'.
I think l'se send ower for the clark,
He might cry us out the neist Sunday ;
It's winter—we're nae thrang at wark,
Sae I think I'll just marry 'gin Monday !
Mary Riddle—you shall have sent to you from Edinburgh—bound in
red—with a green silk ribbon in it,-to mark the chapter where you
left off—a Bible. We know you have one of your own—but 'tis much
worn—the brown binding is tatter'd and worm-eaten—the pages very
yellow—and some words at many places so indistinct that even your
eyes cannot easily make them out in the gloaming, or by the flicker-
ing peat-light. We need not bid you read the Bible often now—but
continue to do so when you grow up—and should days pass by without
your looking into it, remember the old man whose name you will see
written along with your own di one of the blank pages, and who will
then be in his grave. Think you hear his voice saying, " Mary
Riddle, have you forgotten our advice below the trees on Tweeclsidel'
Nay—Mary—we wished not to set you sweeping; and, along with
the Bible, will come some yards of ability for a gown for the braes,
and some of a better sort, plain, but pretty, for your dress on the
Sabbath. And perhaps a trifle or two beside—such as some pink
ribbons, and a silk handkerchief or two—which, with care, may last
till you are a maiden with a sweetheart. But part we must not, till
you even give another song. So wipe your eyes—aye, the sleeve of
your gown will do—and as there is nothing like being happy—hear
the birds—let's have again something gay of Gilfillan's—say "Young
Willie, the Ploughman."