But my only fancy is my pretty Nancy,
In venting iny passion I'll strive to be plain;
I'll ask no more treasure, I'll seek no more pleasure,
But thee, my dear Nancy, gin thou wert my ain.
Her beauty delights me, her kindness invites me,
Her pleasant behaviour is free from all stain,
Therefore, my sweet jewel, do not prove cruel;
Consent, my dear Nancy, and come, be my ain.
Her carriage is comely, her language is homely,
Her dress is quite decent when ta'en in the main;
She's blooming in feature, she's handsome in stature,
My charming dear Nancy, O wert thou my ain!
Like Phœbus adorning the fair ruddy morning,
Her bright eyes are sparkling, her brows are serene,
Her yellow locks shining, in beauty combining,
My charming sweet Nancy, wilt thou be my ain?
The whole of her face is, with maidenly graces
Array'd like the gowans that grow in yon glen;
She's well shap'd and slender, true-hearted and tender,
My charming sweet Nancy, O wert thou my ain!
I'll seek through the nation for some habitation,
To shelter my jewel from cold, snow, and rain,
With songs to my dearie, I'll keep her aye cheery,
My charming sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my ain.
I'll work at my calling to furnish thy dwelling,
With ev'ry thing needful thy life to sustain;
Thou shalt not sit single, but by a clear ingle,
I'll marrow thee, Nancy, when thou art my ain.
I'll make true affection the constant direction
Of loving my Nancy, while life doth remain:
Though youth will be wasting, true love shall be lasting,
My charming sweet Nancy, gin thou wert my ain.
But what if my Nancy should alter her fancy,
To favour another be forward and fain,
I will not compel her, but plainly I'll tell her,
Begone thou false Nancy, thou'se ne'er be my ain.
The Auld Gudeman.
Laird.
I'll ha'e my coat o' gude snuff-brown,
My pouther'd wig to co'er my crown,
I'll deck me, Meg, and busk me fine,
I'm gaun to court a tocher'd quean.
Meg.
Your hosen, laird, are baith to darn,
Your best sark's bleachin', that's but harn,
Your coat's a' stour, your wig's to kame,
Troth laird, ye'd better bide at hame.
Laird.
Auld Punch will carry Jock, the lad,
I'll ride mysel' the lang-tail'd yad,
Wi' pistols at my saddle-tree,
Weel mounted, as a laird should be.
Meg.
There's peats to cast, the hay's to cuile,
The yad's run ow'r the muir a mile,
The saddle's stoun, auld Punch is lame,
'Deed, laird, ye'd better bide at hame,
Think, laird, a wee, and look about,
Your gear's a' thrivin' in and out,—
I'm wae to see you courting dule,—
Wha kens but this same quean's a fool?
Laird.
Ay, ay, your drift's no ill to tell,
Ye fain wad ha'e me, Meg, yoursel';
But, sure as Blutterbog's my name,
I'll court the lass, and bring her hame.
Ha'e ye seen.
[The author of this fine song is generally said to be Robert Burns, Junior, eldest son of the poet, who for many years held a respectable but by no means a lucrative situation as clerk in the Stamp Office, at Somerset House, London. We know not where the song first appeared.]
Ha'e ye seen, in the calm dewy morning,
The red-breast wild warbling sae clear;
Or the low-dwelling, snow-breasted gowan,
Surcharg'd wi' mild e'ening's soft tear?
O, then ye ha'e seen my dear lassie,
The lassie I lo'e best of a';
But far frae the hame o' my lassie,
I'm mony a lang mile awa'.
Her hair is the wing o' the blackbird,
Her eye is the eye o' the dove,
Her lips are the ripe blushing rose-bud,
