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I ken they scorn my low estate,
But that does never grieve me
But I'm as free as any he,

Sma' siller will relieve me.

I count my health my greatest wealth,
Sae lang as I'll enjoy it :

I'll fear nae scant, I'll bode nae want,
As lang's I get employment.

But far aff fowls hae feathers fair,
And ay until ye try them :

Tho' they seem fair, still have a care,

They may prove waur than I am.

But at twal at night, when the moon shines bright,
My dear, I'll come and see thee;

For the man that lo'es his mistress weel
Nae travel makes him weary.

HEY, THE DUSTY MILLER.

TUNE 'THE DUSTY MILLER.'

HEY, the dusty miller,
And his dusty coat;
He will win a shilling,
Or he spend a groat.
Dusty was the coat,
Dusty was the colour,
Dusty was the kiss

That I got frae the miller.

Hey, the dusty miller,

And his dusty sack;

Leeze me on the calling
Fills the dusty peck.

Fills the dusty peck,
Brings the dusty siller;
I wad gie my coatie
For the dusty miller.

THE CARDIN' O'T.

TUNE-SALT FISH AND DUMPLINGS.'

I COFT a stane o' haslock woo',
To make a coat to Johnny o't;
For Johnny is my only jo,
I lo'e him best of ony yet.

The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't,
The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't;
When ilka ell cost me a groat,

The tailor staw the lynin o't.

For though his locks be lyart gray,
And tho' his brow be beld aboon;
Yet I hae seen him on a day,
The pride of a' the parishen.
The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't,
The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't;
When ilka ell cost me a groat,
The tailor staw the lynin o't.

THE JOYFUL WIDOWER.

TUNE- MAGGY LAUDER.'

I MARRIED with a scolding wife

The fourteenth of November; She made me weary of my life, By one unruly member.

Long did I bear the heavy yoke,
And many griefs attended ;
But, to my comfort be it spoke,
Now, now her life is ended.

We lived full one-and-twenty years
A man and wife together;

At length from me her course she steer'd,
And gone I know not whither:
Would I could guess, I do profess,
I speak, and do not flatter,

Of all the women in the world,
I never could come at her.

Her body is bestowed well,

A handsome grave does hide her ; But sure her soul is not in hell,

The deil would ne'er abide her.

I rather think she is aloft,

And imitating thunder;

For why, methinks I hear her voice
Tearing the clouds asunder.

THENIEL MENZIE'S BONIE MARY

TUNE- THE RUFFIAN'S RANT.'

IN coming by the brig o' Dye,
At Darlet we a blink did tarry ;

As day was dawin in the sky

We drank a health to bonie Mary.
Theniel Menzie's bonie Mary;
Theniel Menzie's bonie Mary;
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie,

Kissin' Theniel's bonie Mary.

Her een sae bright, her brow sae white,
Her haffet locks as brown's a berry,
An' ay they dimpled wi' a smile
The rosy cheeks o' bonie Mary,
Theniel Menzie's bonie Mary,
Theniel Menzie's bonie Mary;
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie
Kissin' Theniel's bonie Mary.

We lap an' danced the lee-lang day,
Till piper lads were wae an' weary,
But Charlie gat the spring to pay
For kissin' Theniel's bonie Mary.
Theniel Menzie's bonie Mary,
Theniel Menzie's bonie Mary;
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie
Kissin' Theniel's bonie Mary.

THE FAREWELL.

TUNE-'IT WAS A' FOR our rightFU' KING.'

IT was a' for our rightfu' King,
We left fair Scotland's strand
It was a' for our rightfu' King
We e'er saw Irish land,
My dear;

We e'er saw Irish land.

Now a' is done that men can do,
And a' is done in vain ;

My love and native land farewell,
For I maun cross the main,
My dear;

For I maun cross the main.

He turn'd him right and round about
Upon the Irish shore;

And gae his bridle-reins a shake,

With adieu for evermore,

My dear;

With adieu for evermore.

The sodger from the wars returns,
The sailor frae the main ;
But I hae parted frae my love,
Never to meet again,

My dear;

Never to meet again.

When day is gane, and night is come,
And a' folk bound to sleep;

I think on him that's far awa',
The lee-lang night, and weep,
My dear;

The lee-lang night, and weep.

IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONIE FACE.

TUNE THE MAID'S COMPLAINT.'

IT is na, Jean, thy bonie face,
Nor shape that I admire,
Although thy beauty and thy grace
Might weel awake desire.
Something, in ilka part o' thee,

To praise, to love, I find ;
But dear as is thy form to me,
Still dearer is thy mind.

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