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Even there her other works are foil'd
 By the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.

O had she been a country maid,
 And I the happy country swain,
Tho' sheltered in the lowest shed
 That ever rose on Scotia's plain;
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain
 With joy, with rapture I would toil;
And nightly to my bosom strain
 The bonny lass of Ballochmyle.

Then pride might climb this slippery steep,
 Where fame and honour lofty shine;
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep
 Or downward sink the Indian mine;
Give me the cot below the pine,
 To tend the flocks, or till the soil,
And every day have joys divine,
 Wi' the bonny lass of Ballochmyle.

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AULD ROB MORRIS.

 

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
 He's the king o' gude fellows and wale o' auld men;