An’ dibbled it in his yairdie,—
He’s pu’d the rose o’ England loons
An’ broken the harp o’ Irish clowns—
But our Scotch thistle will jag his thumbs!
The wee, wee German lairdie!
We shall not find anything of a bilious nature in a Scottish love-song. We shall not hear the swain asking his lady-love to meet him “in some sky,” or “when the hay is in the mow,” or any other vaguely indefinite place or period. The Scottish lover appears,—if we may judge him by his native song,—to be supremely healthy in his sentiments, and gratefully conscious of the excellence of both life and love. He takes even poverty with a light heart, and does not grizzle over it in trickling tears of dismal melody. No; he says simply and cheerily:
My riches a’ my penny fee,
An’ I maun guide it cannie O,—
But this world’s gear ne’er fashes me,—