Air "O bonie lass, will you lie in a barrack'
O KEN ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten?
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten?
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller,
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller.
The Miller was strappan, the Miller was ruddy!
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady:
The laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl;
She's left the guid fellow and taen the churl.
The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving;
The laird did address her wi' matter mair moving,
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle,
A whip by her side and a bonie side-saddle.
O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ;
And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen!
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle,
But, gie me my love, and a fig for the warl!
THERE's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, He's the king o' guid fellows, and wale of auld men; He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And ae bonie lassie, his darling and mine.
She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay;
As blithe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.
But oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird,
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house, and yard
A wooer like me mauna hope to come speed,
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.
The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane;
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.
O, had she but been of lower degree,
I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me: O, how past describing had then been my bliss, As now my distraction no words can express.
Tune-"Invercald's Reel.",
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day,
Ye would nae been sae shy;
For laik o' gear ye lightly me,
But trowth I care na by.
YESTREEN I met you on the moor,
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure:
Ye geck at me because I'm poor,
But fient a hair care I.
I doubt na, lass, but ye may think,
Because ye hae the name o' clink,
That ye can please me at a wink,
Whene'er ye like to try.
But sorrow tak him that's sae mean,
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean,
Wha follows any saucy quean
That looks sae proud and high.
O Tibbie, &c.
Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart,
If that he want the yellow dirt,
Ye'll cast your head anither airt,
And answer him fu' dry.
But if he hae the name o' gear,
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier,
Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear,
Be better than the kye.
But Tibbie, lass, tak my advice,
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice,
The deal a ane wad spier your price,
Were ye as poor as I.
There lives a lass in yonder park,
I would na gie her in her sark,
For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark:
Ye needna look sae high.
DUNCAN GRAY.
DUNCAN GRAY came here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
On blithe yule night when we were fu',
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Maggie coost her head fu' high,
Look'd asklent and unco' skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh:
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Duncan fleech'd and Duncan pray'd:
Ha, ha, &c.
Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig,
Ha, ha, &c.
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',
Spak o' louping o'er a linn;
Ha, ha, &c.
Time and chance are but a tide,
Ha, ha, &c.
Slighted love is sair to bide,
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie die!
She may gae to-France for me!
Ha, ha, &c.
How it comes let doctors tell,
Ha, ha, &c.
Meg grew sick-as he grew heal,
Ha, ha, &c.
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings;
And O, her een, they spak sic things!
Ha, ha, &c.
Duncan was a lad o' grace,
Maggie's was a piteous case,
Ha, ha, &c.
Duncan could na be her death,
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;
Now they're crouse and cantie baith!
Ha, ha, &c.
THE BRAW WOOER.
Tune-"The Lothian Lassie."
LAST May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,
And sair wi' his love he did deave me!
I said there was naething I hated like men,
The deuce gae wi'm to believe me, believe me,
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me.
He spak o' the darts in my bonie black e'en,
And vow'd for my love he was dying;
I said he might die when he liked, for Jean;
The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying,
The Lord forgie me for lying.
A well-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird,
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers;
I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or car'd,
But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers,
But thought I might hae waur offers.
But what wad ye think, in a fortnight or less,
The deil tak his taste to gae near her!
He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess,
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her,
Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her.
But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care,
I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock,
And wha but my fine, fickle lover was there;
I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock,
I glow'rd as I'd seen a warlock.
But owre my left shouther I gaed him a blink,
Lest neebors might say I was saucy;
My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink,
And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear Insale,
And vow'd I was his dear lassie.
I spier'd for my cousin, fu' couthie and sweet,
Gin she had recover'd her hearin,
And how her new shoon fit her auld shackl't feet,
But, heavens! how he fell a-swearin, a-swearin,
But, heavens! how he fell a-swearin.
He begg'd for Gudesake! I wad be his wife,
Or else 1 wad kill him wi' sorrow:
So e'en to preserve the poor body in life,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow.
WILLIE'S WIFE,
WILLIE WASTLE dwalt on Tweed,
The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie,
Willie was a wabster guid,
Cou'd stown a clue wi' onie bodie:
He had a wife was dour and din,
O tinkler Madgie was her mother;
Sic a wife as Willie had,
I wad na gie a button for her.
She has an e'e, she has but ane,
The cat has twa the very colour;
Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump,
A clapper tongue wad deave a miller:
A whiskin beard about her mou,
Her nose and chin they threaten ither.
Sic a wife, &c.
She's bough-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd,
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter;
She's twisted right, she's twisted left,
To balance fair in ilka quarter:
She has a hump upon her breast,
The twin o' that upon her shouther;
Sic a wife, &c.
Auld baudron by the ingle sits,
An wi' her loof her face a washin;
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig,
She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion;
Her walle nieves like midden-creels,
Her face wad fyle the Logan-water,
Sic a wife, &ę,
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