But as the truth is, I am hearty,
I hate to be scrimpit or scant:
The wee thing I hae, I’ll mak use o’t,
and ne'er ane about me shall want,
For I’m a good guide o’ the warld,
I ken whan to haud and to gi’e;
For whinging and cringing for siller,
will never agree wi’ me.
Contentment, is better than riches,
an’ he that has that has enough,
The master is seldom so happy,
as Robin who drives the plough:
But if a young lad wad cast up,
to mak me his partner for life:
If the chiel has the sense to be happy,
he’ll fa’ on his feet for a wife.
The FLOWERS of EDINBURGH.
MY love was once a bonny lad,
he was the flower of all his kin;
The absence of his bonny face
has rent my tender heart in twain.
I day nor night find no delight,
in silent tears I still complain;
And exclaim against my rival foes,
that have ta’en from me my darling swain,
Despair and anguish fill my breast,
since I have lost my blooming rose,
I sigh and moan while others rest,
his absence yields me no repose:
To seek my love, I’ll range and rove,
thro’ every grove and distant plain:
