She'll ablins say, "Ye're no that blate,
To speak to me at sic a rate;"
But never fear, for sune or late,
Fu' glad they're to be married.
Then ye'll whistle, then ye'll sing.
Then ye'll caper, then ye'll fling,
Wow but it's a happy thing,
When ane gets coshly married!
Mary Lee’s Lament.
[From "The Gallovidian Dictionary," by T. M. Taggart. This "Lament" is written in the Galloway dialect, and displays much rough strength of thought and expression.]
I dinna like the Meg-o'-mony-feet,
Nor the brawnet Conochworm,
Quoth Mary Lee, as she sat and did greet,
A-dadding wi' the storm.
Nowther like I the yellow-wymed ask,
'Neath the root o' yon aik tree,
Nor the hairy adders on the fog that bask;
But waur I like Robin-a-Ree.
Hatefu' it is to hear the whut-throat chark,
Frae out the auld taff-dike;
And wha likes the e'ening singing lark,
Or the auld moon-bowing tyke?
I hate them—and the ghaist at e'en
That points at me, puir Mary Lee!
But ten times waur hate I, I ween,
That vile chield, Robin-a-Ree.
Sourer than the green bullister,
Is a kiss o' Robin-a-Ree,
And the milk on the taed's back I wad prefer
To the poison on his lips that be.
Oh! ance I lived happy by yon bonnie burn—
The warld was in love wi' me;
But now I maun sit 'neath the cauld drift and mourn,
And curse black Robin-a-Ree.
Then whudder awa', thou bitter-biting blast,
And sough through the scrunty tree,
And smoor me up in the snaw fu' fast,
And ne'er let the sun me see!
Oh! never melt awa', thou wreath o' snaw,
That's sae kind in graving me;
But hide me aye frae the scorn and guffaw
O' villains like Robin-a-Ree!
O Tibbie.
[This was written by Burns in 1776, when he was only about seventeen years of age. The subject of the song is said to have been Isabella Steven, the daughter of a small laird near Lochlee.—Tune, "Invercauld's Reel."]
O Tibbie! I ha'e seen the day
Ye wadna been sae shy;
For lack o' gear ye lightly me,
But ne'er a hair care I.
Yestreen I met you on the moor,
Ye spak' na, but gaed by like stoure;
Ye geck at me because I'm poor,
But ne'er a hair care I.
I doubt na, lass, but ye may think,
Because ye ha'e the name o' clink,
That ye can please me wi' a wink,
Whene'er ye like to try.
But sorrow take him that's sae mean,
Although his pouch o' coin were clean,
Wha follows ony saucy quean,
That looks sae proud and high.
Although a lad were e'er sae smart,
If he but want the yellow dirt,
Ye'll cast your head anither airt,
And answer him fu' dry.
But if he ha'e the name o' gear,
Y'ell fasten to him like a brier,
Though hardly he, for sense or lear,
Be better than the kye.
There lives a lass in yonder park,
I wadna gi'e her in her sark
For thee, wi' a' thy thousand mark;
Thou needna look sae high.
The Widow sae Young.
[Captain Charles Gray, R. M. Music by G. F. Graham.—Here first printed.]
May blessings yet fa' on the widow sae young;
May blessings yet fa' on the widow sae young;
Her hopes ha'e been wither'd—her heart sairly wrung—
Ah! 'tis waesome to look on a widow sae young!
