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Tak’ your glass to clear your een,
'Tis the elixir heels the spleen;
Baith wit and mirth it will inspire,
And gently puffs the lover's fire.

Up in the air,

It drives away care ;
Hae wi' ye, hae wi' ye, and hae wi' ye, lads, yet!

Up in, &c.

Steek the doors, keep out the frost,
Come, Willy, gi’e's about ye’r toast ;
Till’t, lads, and lilt it out,
And let us hae a blythsome bowt.

Up wi't there, there;

Dinna cheat, but drink fair.
Huzza, huzza, and huzza, lads, yet!

Up wi't, &c.

This song is founded upon a very ancient ballad, of which some fragments only exist.


From the manuscript collection of Scottish songs by Peter Buchan.

Up in the morning, up in the morning,

Up in the morning early ;
Frae night till morn our squires they sat,

An' drank the juice o' the barley.
Some they spent but ae hauf-crown,

And some six crowns sae rarely;
In the alewife's pouch the siller did clink,
She got in the morning early.

Up in the morning early, &c.

I hae got fou, Beldornie cried ;

Wardess replied, I am fou tee;
Then said Darlicha, Beware o' a fa',
An' haud by the wa' as I dee.

Up in the morning early, &c.

Be wyllie, my boys, be wise, my boys,

Lat sorrow gae through your thinking;

haud on as ye hae begun,
Your pouches will leave aff clinking.

Up in the morning early, &c.

We will gae hame, said Lord Aboyne;

Na, sit awhile, quo' Towie;
Oh, never a foot, said Lochnievar,
As lang's there's beer in the bowie.

Up in the morning early, &c.

There they sat the lee-lang night,

Nor stirr'd till the sun shone clearly ;
Then made an end as they began,
And gaed hame in the morning early.

Up in the morning early, &c.

The “boon companions" named in this song were all Aberdeenshire gentlemen. The Lord Aboyne was afterwards Duke of Gordon, and author of one of the versions of the song of “ Cauld kail in Aberdeen."


From the manuscript collection of the songs of the north of Scotland by

Peter Buchan.

My mind is vex'd and sair perplex'd,

I'll tell you a' that grieves me ;
A drunken wife I hae at hame,
Her noisome din aye deaves me.
The ale-wife, the drunken wife,

The ale-wife she grieves me ;
My wifie and her barrelie,

They'll ruin me and deave me.

She takes her barrel on her back,

Her pint-stoup in her hand,
And she is to the market gane
For to set up a stand.

The ale-wife, &c.

And whan she does come hame again,

She wides through girse and corn ;
Says, I maun hae anither pint,
Though I should beg the morn.

The ale-wife, &c.
She sets her barrel on the ground,

And travels but and ben ;
I canna get my wifie keepit
Out amo' the men.

The ale-wife, &c.



ANDREW SHERIFFS. 1787. Air—"A cogie of yill,” composed by Robert Macintosh, who died in London

in 1807.

A COGIE O'yill,

And a pickle aitmeal,
And a dainty wee drappie o' whisky,

Was our forefathers' dose

For to sweel down their brose,
And keep them aye cheery and frisky.

Then hey for the whisky, 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 cheery and brisk aye.
When I see our Scots lads,

Wi' their kilts and cockauds,
That sae aften hae lounder'd 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.
When our brave Highland blades,

Wi' their claymores and plaids,
In the field drive like sheep a' our foes, man;

Their courage and power

Spring frae this to be sure,
They're the noble effects o’the brose, man.

Then hey, &c.

But your spindle-shank'd sparks,

Wha sae ill fill their sarks,
Your pale-visaged milk-sops and beaux, man;

I think when I see them,

'Twere kindness to gi'e them A cogie o'yill or o'brose, man.

Then hey, &c.

What John Bull despises,

Our better sense prizes,
He denies eatin' blanter ava, man;

But by eatin' o' blanter,

His mare's grown, I'll warrant her,
The manliest brute o' the twa, man.

Then hey, &c.


From Herd's Collection. Air—“ Hooly and fairly."

Doun in yon meadow a couple did tarry :
The gudewife she drank naething but sack and canary ;
The gudeman complain’d to her friends richt early-
Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly!

Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly,
Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly !

And syne

First she drank Crummie, and syne she drank Gairie,

she drank my bonny grey marie, That carried me through a' the dubs and the glairieOh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly !

She drank her hose, she drank her shoon,
And syne she drank her bonnie new goun ;
She drank her sark that cover'd her rarely-
Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly !

Wad she drink but her ain things I wadna care,
But she drinks my claes that I canna weel spare ;
When I'm wi' my gossips it angers me sairly—
Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly !

My Sunday's coat, she’s laid it in wad,
And the best blue bonnet was e'er on my head ;
At kirk or at mercat I'm cover'd but barely-
Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly!

My bonny white mittens I wore on my hands,
Wi' her neighbour's wife she had laid them in pawns ;
My bane-headed staff that I looed sae dearly
Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly !

I never was for wranglin' nor strife,
Nor did I deny her the comforts of life;
For when there's a war I'm aye for a parly-
Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly!

When there's ony money she maun keep the purse,
If I seek but a bawbee she'll scold and she'll curse;
She lives like a queen, I but scrimpit and sparely-
Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly !

A pint wi' her cummers I wad ber allow;
But when she sits down, oh, the jaud she gets fou,
And when she is fou she is unco camstarie-
Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly !

When she comes to the street she roars and rants,
Has nae fear o' her neibours, nor minds the house-wants;
She rants up some fule-sang, like, Up your heart, Charlie !-
Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly !

When she comes hame she lays on the lads,
The lasses she ca's baith bitches an’ jauds,
An' ca’s mysell an auld cuckle-carlie
Oh, gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly !

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