The Book of Scottish Song/The Tocherless Lass

The Tocherless Lass.

[Alex. Buchanan.—Here first printed.]

Driegh to me are the hours I'm an unwoo'd maid,
Lingering in bloom like a rose in the shade;
Folks a' say I'm bonnie, but beauty will fade,
Gin they lea' me to linger an unwoo'd maid.

My temper is guid, I've twa dancin' black een,
A mou' made for kissin', a roun' dimpled chin,
A mind, fain to mak' a man happy an' bein,
But I want warl's charm, I'm a tocherless quean.

To win me an wooer, ilk effort I try,
I ogle the lads but my glances they shy,
I bait me wi' smiles, for to catch them gaun by,
But fruitless my fishin', nae laddie looks nigh.

But what needs I mourn though I get na a mate,
Or think I am slichted though lanely my state—
Love aft leives an hour an' then dees unto hate,
Could I think it, I'm far better wantin' a mate.

But losh, my heart warms ilka time that I see
A lass wi' her lad gaun at nicht ower the lea,
Their keekin', an' kissin', an smirkin', an' glee,
Is enough to mak' mad maidens aulder than me.

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