O Willy! aye I bless the grove
Where first I owned my maiden love,
Whilst thou didst pledge the Powers above
To be my ain dear Willy.
As songsters of the early year
Are ilka day mair sweet to hear,
So ilka day to me mair dear
And charming is my Philly.
As on the brier the budding rose
Still richer breathes and fairer blows,
So in my tender bosom grows
The love I bear my Willy.
The milder sun and bluer sky,
That crown my harvest cares wi' joy,
Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye
As is a sight o' Philly.
The little swallow's wanton wing,
Though wafting o'er the flowery spring,
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring,
As meeting o' my Willy.
The bee that through the sunny hour
Sips nectar in the opening flower,
Compared wi' my delight, is poor,
Upon the lips ' Philly.
The woodbine in the dewy weet,
When evening shades in silence meet,
Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet
As is a kiss o' Willy.
Let Fortune's wheel at random rin,
And fools may tine, and knaves may win;
My thoughts are a' bound up in ane,
And that's my ain dear Philly.
What's a' the joys that gowd can gie!
I care nae wealth a single flie;
The lad I love's the lad for me,
And that's my ain dear Willy.
CONTENTED WI' LITTLE.
CONTENTED wi' little, and cantie wi' mair,
Whene'er I forgather wi' Sorrow and Care,
I gie them a skelp, as they 're creeping alang,
Wi' a cog o' guid swats, and an auld Scottish sang.
I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought;
But man is a sodger, and life is a faught:
My mirth and guid humour are coin in my pouch,
And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch.
A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa',
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a':
When at the blithe end o' our journey at last,
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past?
Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way;
Be't to me, be 't frae me, e'en let the jade gae:
Come ease, or come travail; come pleasure, or pain,
My warst word is-' Welcome, and welcome again!'
CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY KATIE?
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katie?
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katie?
Well thou know'st my aching heart,
And canst thou leave me thus for pity?
Is this thy plighted fond regard,
Thus cruelly to part, my Katie ?
Is this thy faithful swain's reward-
An aching, broken heart, my Katie?
Farewell! and ne'er such sorrows tear
That fickle heart of thine, my Katie!
Thou mayst find those will love thee dear-
But not a love like mine, my Katie.
My Chloris, mark how green the
The primrose banks how fair;
The balmy gales awake the flowers,
And wave thy flaxen hair.
The laverock shuns the palace gay,
And o'er the cottage sings;
For Nature smiles as sweet, I ween,
To shepherds as to kings.
Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string
In lordly lighted ha';
The shepherd stops his simple reed,
Blithe, in the birken shaw.
The princely revel may survey
Our rustic dance wi' scorn;
But are their hearts as light as ours
Beneath the milk-white thorn?
The shepherd, in the flowery glen,
In shepherd's phrase will woo;
The courtier tells a finer tale,
But is his heart as true?
These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck
That spotless breast o' thine:
The courtier's gems may witness love-
But 'tis na love like mine.
HAD I THE WYTE SHE BADE ME.
HAD I the wyte, had I the wyte,
Had I the wyte she bade me;
She watched me by the hie-gate side,
And up the loan she shawed me;
And when I wadna venture in,
A coward loon she ca'd me;
Had Kirk and State been in the gate,
I lighted when she bade me.
Sae craftily she took me ben,
And bade me make na clatter;
'For our ramgunshoch, glum guidman
Is o'er ayont the water.'
Whae'er shall say I wanted grace
When I did kiss and dawte her,
Let him be planted in my place,
Syne say I was a fautor.
Could I for shame, could I for shame, Could I for shame refused her? And wadna manhood been to blame Had I unkindly used her :
He clawed her wi' the ripplin'-kame, And blae and bluidy bruised her: When sic a husband was frae hame, What wife but wad excused her?
I dighted aye her een sae blue,
And banned the cruel randy;
And weel I wat her willing mou'
Was e'en like sugar-candy.
At gloaming-shot it was, I trow,
I lighted on the Monday;
But I cam through the Tysday's dew,
To wanton Willie's brandy.
COMING THROUGH THE RYE.
COMING through the rye, poor body,
Coming through the rye,
She draiglet a' her petticoatie
Coming through the rye.
O, Jenny's a' wat, poor body;
Jenny's seldom dry;
She draiglet a' her petticoatie
Coming through the rye.
Gin a body meet a body
Coming through the rye, Gin a body kiss a bodyNeed a body cry?
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