She gazed-she reddened like a rose,
Syne pale like ony lily;
She sank within my arms, and cried,
'Art thou my ain dear Willie?'
'By him who made yon sun and sky-
By whom true love's regarded,
I am the man: and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded.
'The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted!
Though poor in gear, we're rich in love,
An' mair we'se ne'er be parted.'
Quo' she, 'My grandsire left me gowd,
A mailen plenished fairly;
And come, my faithfu' sodger lad,
Thou 'rt welcome to it dearly.'
For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor;
But glory is the sodger's prize,
The sodger's wealth is honour.
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger;
Remember he's his country's stay,
In day and hour of danger.
MEG O' THE MILL.
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 strappin', 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 ta'en the churl.
The miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving;
The laird did address her wi' matter more moving,-
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chainèd bridle,
A whip by her side, and a bonnie 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 gi'e 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 bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.
She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
She's sweet as the evening amang the new hay;
As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my ee.
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 maunna 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 a lower degree,
I then might hae hoped she wad smiled upon me!
O how past descriving had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction no words can express!
DUNCAN GRAY.
DUNCAN GRAY cam here to woo-
Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
On blithe yule night, when we were fou'-
Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
Maggie coost her head fu' high,
Looked asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
Duncan fleeched, and Duncan prayed-
Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig-
Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
Duncan sighed baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleert and blin',
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
Time and chance are but a tide-
Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
Slighted love is sair to bide-
Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
Shall I, like a fool,' quoth he,
'For a haughty hizzie die?
She may gae to-France for me!'
Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
How it comes let doctors tell-
Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
Meg grew sick, as he grew well-
Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings;
And, oh, her een, they spak sic things!
Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
Duncan was a lad o' grace
Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
Maggie's was a piteous case-
Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
Duncan could na be her death,
Swelling pity smoored his wrath;
Now they're crouse and canty baith.
Ha, ha, the wooing o't!
THE PLOUGHMAN.
THE ploughman he's a bonnie lad,
His mind is ever true, jo;
His garters knit below his knee,
His bonnet it is blue, jo.
Then up wi' my ploughman lad,
And hey my merry ploughman!
Of a' the trades that I do ken,
Commend me to the ploughman.
My ploughman he comes hame at e'en,
He's aften wat and weary:
Cast off the wat, put on the dry,
And gae to bed, my dearie!
I will wash my ploughman's hose,
And I will dress his o'erly:
I will mak my ploughman's bed,
And cheer him late and early.
I hae been east, I hae been west,
I hae been at Saint Johnston;
The bonniest sight that e'er I saw
Was the ploughman laddie dancin'.
Snaw-white stockin's on his legs,
And siller buckles glancin';
A guid blue bonnet on his head-
And oh, but he was handsome!
Commend me to the barn-yard,
And the corn-nou, man;
I never gat my coggie fou
Till I met wi' the ploughman.
TO DAUNTON ME.
THE blude-red rose at Yule may blaw,
The simmer lilies bloom in snaw,
The frost may freeze the deepest sea;
But an auld man shall never daunton me.
To daunton me, and me sae young,
Wi' his fause heart and flattering tongue,
That is the thing you ne'er shall see;
For an auld man shall never daunton me.
For a' his meal and a' his maut,
For a' his fresh beef and his saut,
For a' his gold and white monie,
An auld man shall never daunton me.
His gear may buy him kye and yowes,
His gear may buy him glens and knowes;
But me he shall not buy nor fee,
For an auld man shall never daunton me.
He hirples twa-fauld as he dow,
Wi' his teethless gab and his auld beld pow,
And the rain dreeps down frae his red bleered eeThat auld man shall never daunton me.
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