AULD ROB MORRIS. 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 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; O, had she but been of lower degree, I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me! O, how past descriving had then been my bliss, As now my distraction no words can express! DUNCAN GRAY. DUNCAN GRAY came here to woo, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. On blythe yule night, when we were fu", Maggie coost her head fu' high, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd; Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, Ha, ha, &c. Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, Ha, ha, &c. Time and chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, &c. Slighted love is sair to bide, Ha, ha, &c. Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie die? How it comes let doctors tell, Ha, ha, &c. Meg grew sick as he grew heal, Something in her bosom wrings, And O, her e'en, they spak sic things! Duncan was a lad o' grace, Ha, ha, &c. Maggie's was a piteous case, Duncan could na be her death, SONG. Tune, I had a horse.' O POORTITH Cauld, and restless love, This warld's wealth when I think on, Fie, fie on silly coward man, Her een sae bonnie blue betray O wha can prudence think upon, How blest the humble cotter's fate! GALLA WATER. THERE'S braw braw lads on Yarrow braes, But Yarrow braes, nor Ettric shaws, But there is ane, a secret ane, Aboon them a' I lo'e him better; And I'll be his, and he'll be mine, The bonnie lad o' Galla water. Altho' his daddie was nae laird, We'll tent our flocks by Galla water. It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, O that's the chiefest warld's treasure! LORD GREGORY. O MINK, mirk is this midnight hour, An exile frae her father's ha', Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove, By bonnie Irwine side, Where first I own'd that virgin-love I lang, lang had denied. How aften didst thou pledge and vow, Thou wad for ay be mine! And my fond heart, itsel sae true, It ne'er mistrusted thine. |