There is a second part to this song, which ends with the words:—
Now lest our wiues should find us ’Tis fit we should look behind us Let’s see what is done Then pay and begone, as honesty hath assigned us. ’Tis strong ale I conceiue it ’Tis good in time to leaue it Or else it will make Our foreheads to ake, ’tis vanity to outbraue it. Come hither, &c.
Coming now to works of a later date, the following comicality seems worthy of reproduction. It is hardly necessary to point out that the verses are a smart hit upon female ale-bibbers. They are attributed to Samuel Bishop, M.A., rector of St. Stephen’s, Walbrook (1783). “A worthy man and generally beloved,” says Dr. Hughson, LL.D., in his London.
QUOD PETIS HIC EST.
A collection of ale ballads and songs would hardly be complete without at least one on the “guid yill of Scotland.” Burns’ works are so well known that we fall back upon a capital Scotch song written at the close of the last century, and bearing the title A Coggie O’ Yill. The author was Andrew Sheriffs of Shirrefs, at one time Editor of the Aberdeen Chronicle. He also wrote a Scotch pastoral entitled Jamie and Bess, which was published in 1787, and a second time in 1790. Burns, in his Third Northern Tour, speaks of Sheriffs, who was a bookbinder by trade, as “a little decrepit body with some abilities.” The words of the song were set to music by a celebrated violin player, named Robert Macintosh.
A COGGIE O’ YILL.
A Coggie o’ Yill, And a pickle aitmeal, And a dainty wee drappie o’ whiskey, Was our forefathers dose, For to sweel down their brose And keep them aye cheery and friskey— {330} Then hey for the wiskey, and hey for the meal, And hey for the Cogie, and hey for the yill, Gin ye steer a’ thegither they’ll do unco weel, To keep a chiel cherry and brisk aye.
When I see our Scots lads, Wi’ their kilts and cockauds, That sae often ha’e loundered our foes, man: I think to mysel’, On the meal and the yill, And the fruits o’ our Scottish Kail brose, man. Then hey, &c., &c.
Then our brave Highland blades, Wi’ their claymore and plaids, In the field drive like sheep a’ our foes, man: Their courage and pow’r— Spring from this to be sure, They’re the noble effects o’ the brose, man. Then hey, &c., &c.