Quoth Patie, My news is na thrang;
Yestreen I was wi' his honour,
I've ta'en three rigs o' braw land,
And bound myself under a honour:
And, now, my errand to you,
Is for Maggie to help me to labour;
But I'm fear'd we'll need your best cow,
Because that our haddin's but sober.
Quoth William, To harl ye through,
I'll be at the cost o' the bridal,
I'se cut the craig o' the ewe,
That had amaist dee'd o' the side-ill:
And that'll be plenty o' broe,
Sae lang as our well is na reested,
To a' the neebors and you;
Sae I think we'll be nae that ill feasted.
Quoth Patie, O that'll do weel,
And I'll gi'e you your brose i'the mornin',
O' kail that was made yestreen,
For I like them best i' the forenoon.
Sae Tam, the piper, did play;
And ilka ane danced that was willin';
And a' the lave they rankit through;
And they held the wee stoupie aye fillin'.
The auld wives sat and they chew'd;
And when that the carles grew nappy,
They danced as weel as they dow'd,
Wi' a crack o' their thooms and a happie.
The lad that wore the white band,
I think they ca'd him Jamie Mather,
He took the bride by the hand,
And cried to play up Maggie Lauder.
I lo’ed ne’er a laddie but ane.
[The first eight lines of this song, and other eight rather too homely for extract here, are said by Burns to have been written by the Rev. John Clunie, minister of Borthwick, Midlothian, who died in 1819, aged 62. The rest of the song, beginning "Let ithers brag weel o' their gear," is by Hector Macneil. The tune bears a strong resemblance to the Irish air called "My lodging is on the cold ground."]
I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane;
He lo'ed ne'er a lassie but me;
He's willing to mak' me his ain;
And his ain I am willing to be.
He has coft me a rokelay o' blue,
And a pair o' mittens o' green;
The price was a kiss o' my mou';
And I paid him the debt yestreen.
Let ithers brag weel o' their gear,
Their land, and their lordly degree;
I carena for aught but my dear,
For he's ilka thing lordly to me:
His words are sae sugar'd, sae sweet!
His sense drives ilk fear far awa'!
I listen, poor fool! and I greet;
Yet how sweet are the tears as they fa'!
Dear lassie, he cries wi' a jeer,
Ne'er heed what the auld anes will say;
Though we've little to brag o'—ne'er fear;
What's gowd to a heart that is wae?
Our laird has baith honours and wealth,
Yet see how he's dwining wi' care;
Now we, though we've naething but health,
Are cantie and leal evermair.
O Marion! the heart that is true,
Has something mair costly than gear
Ilk e'en it has naething to rue—
Ilk morn it has naething to fear.
Ye warldlings, ga'e hoard up your store,
And tremble for fear ought you tyne;
Guard youi treasures wi' lock, bar, and door,
While here in my arms I lock mine!
He ends wi' a kiss and a smile—
Wae's me, can I tak' it amiss!
My laddie's unpractised in guile,
He's free aye to daut and to kiss!
Ye lasses wha lo'e to torment
Your wooers wi' fause scorn and strife,
Play your pranks—I ha'e gi'en my consent,
And this night I am Jamie's for life.
Here awa’, there awa’.
[The beautiful air of "Here awa", there awa" is preserved in Oswald's collection of Scots tunes, 1735-43. Herd, in his collection of 1769, first printed the following fragment of the old words.]
Here awa', there awa', here awa', Willie!
Here awa', there awa', haud awa' hame!
Lang have I sought thee, dear have I bought thee,
Now I have gotten my Willie again.
