DAUGHTER.
Haud your tongue, mother, and let that abee;
For his eild and my eild can never agree:
They'll never agree, and that will be seen,
For he is fourscore, and I'm but fifteen.
MOTHER.
Haud your tongue, dochter, and lay by your pride,
For he is the bridegroom, and ye'se be the bride;
He shall lie by your side, and kiss you too;
Auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun lo'e.
DAUGHTER.
Auld Rob Morris, I ken him fu' weel,
His bac' sticks out like ony peat-creel;
He's out-shinn'd, in-kneed, and ringle-eyed too;
Auld Rob Morris is the man I'll ne'er lo'e.
MOTHER.
Though auld Rob Morris be an elderly man,
Yet his auld brass will buy you a new pan;
Then, dochter, ye should na be sae ill to shoe,
For auld Rob Morris is the man ye maun lo'e.
DAUGHTER.
But auld Rob Morris I never will ha'e,
His back is so stiff, and his beard is grown gray;
I had rather die than live wi' him a year;
Sae mair o' Rob Morris I never will hear.
Auld Rob Morris.
[Written by Burns, for Thomson's collection, in November, 1792. Burns, it will be seen, borrows the two opening lines of the old song.]
There's auld Rob Morris, that wons in yon glen,
He's the king o' gude fellows, and wale o' auld men;
He has gowd in his coffers, and 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 ev'ning amang the new hay;
As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the licht o' my e'e.
But, oh, she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird,
And my daddie has nocht but a cot-house and yard;
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed;
The wounds I maun hide that will soon be my deid.
The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane,
The nicht comes to me, but my rest it is gane;
I wander my lane, like a nicht-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breist.
Oh, had she but been of a lower degree,
I then micht ha'e hoped she wad smiled upon me!
Oh, how past descriving had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction no words can express!
Rob's Jock.
["Rob's Jock," or "The Wooing of Jock and Jenny," to the tune of "Hey, Jenny, com' down to Jock," is one of the very oldest of our Scottish songs, and can be traced as far back as to the Bannatyne MS. of 1568. We find considerable difference of reading in different versions. The following is the version given by Ramsay, who calls it "a very auld ballat."]
Rob's Jock cam' to woo our Jenny;
On ae feast day when we were fou;
She brankit fast, and made her bonnie,
And said, Jock, come ye here to woo?
She burnist her, baith breast and brow,
And made her clear as ony clock;
Then spak' her dame, and said, I trow
Ye come to woo our Jenny, Jock.
Jock said, Forsuith, I yearn fu' fain,
To luk my head, and sit down by you:
Then spak' her minny, and said again,
My bairn has tocher enough to gi'e you.
Tehie! quo' Jenny; Keik, keik, I see you:
Minny, yon man mak's but a mock.
Beshrew the liar, fu leis me o' you,
I come to woo your Jenny, quo' Jock.
My bairn has tocher of her ain:
A guse, a gryce, a cock and hen,
A stirk, a staig, an acre sawin,
A bake-bread and a bannock-stane,
A pig, a pot, and a kirn there-ben,
A kame but and a kaming stock;
With cogs and luggies nine or ten:
Come ye to woo our Jenny, Jock?
A wecht, a peat-creel, and a cradle,
A pair of clips, a graip, a flail,
An ark, an ambry, and a laidle,
