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Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie die ?
She may gae to-France for me !

Ha, ha, &c.

How it comes let doctors tell,

Ha, ha, &c.
Meg grew sick-as he grew well,

Ha, ha, &c.
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings ;
And O, her een, they spak sic things !

Ha, ha, &c.
Duncan was a lad o' grace,

Ha, ha, &c.
Maggie's was a piteous case,

Ha, ha, &c.
Duncan couldna be her death,
Swelling pity smoord his wrath ;
Now they're crouse and cantie baith!

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.



O POORTITH cauld, and restless love,

Ye wreck my peace between ye;
Yet poortith a' I could forgive,
An''t werena for my Jeanie.
O why should fate sic pleasure have,

Life's dearest bands untwining ?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on Fortune's shining ?

This warld's wealth when I think on,

Its pride, and a'the lave o't ;
Fie, fie on silly coward man,
That he should be the slave o't.

O why, &c.

Her een sae bonie blue betray

How she repays my passion ; But prudence is her o'erword aye, She talks of rank and fashion.

O why, &c.

O wha can prudence think upon,

And sic a lassie by him ?
O wha can prudence think upon,
And sae in love as I am ?

O why, &c.

How blest the humble cotter's fate!

He woos his simple dearie;
The sillie bogles, wealth and state,
Can never make them eerie.
O why should fate sic pleasure have,

Life's dearest bands untwining ?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love

Depend on Fortune's shining ?


THERE's braw braw lads on Yarrow braes,

That wander thro' the blooming heather ; But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws,

Can match the lads o' Galla Water.

But there is ane, a secret ane,

Aboon them a' I lo'e him better; And I'll be his, and he'll be mine,

The bonie lad o' Galla Water.

Altho' his daddie was nae laird,

And tho’ I hae nae meikle tocher ; Yet rich in kindest, truest love,

We'll tent our flocks by Galla Water.

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth,

That coft contentment, peace or pleasure ; The bands and bliss o' mutual love,

O that's the chiefest warld's treasure !


O MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour,

And loud the tempest's roar;
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r,

Lord Gregory, ope thy door.

An exile frae her father's ha',

And a' for loving thee;
At least some pity on me shaw,

If love it mayna be.

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove,

By bonie Irwine side,
Where first I own'd that virgin-love,

I lang, lang had denied ?

How aften didst thou pledge and vow,

Thou wad for aye be mine!

fond heart, itsel sae true,
It ne'er mistrusted thine.

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,

And flinty is thy breast :
Thou dart of heaven that flashest by,

O wilt thou give me rest!

Ye mustering thunders from above,

Your willing victim see !
But spare, and pardon my fause love,

His wrangs to heaven and me!



Oh, open the door, some pity to shew,

Oh, open the door to me, Oh! Tho' thou hast been false, I'll ever prove true,

Oh, open the door to me, Oh!

Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek,

But caulder thy love for me, Oh!
The frost that freezes the life at my heart,

Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh!

The wan moon is setting behind the white wave,

And time is setting with me, Oh !
False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair

I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, Oh !

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide;

She sees his pale corse on the plain, Oh ! My true love, she cried, and sank down by his side,

Never to rise again, Oh!


O KEN ye what Meg oʻthe Mill has gotten,
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ?
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o'siller,
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller.

The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy ;
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady ;
The Laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl ;
She's left the guid fellow and ta'en the churl.
The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving ;
The Laird did address her wi' matter mair moving,
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle,
A whip by her side, and a bonie side-saddle.
O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ;
And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen!
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle,
But, gie me my love, and a fig for the warl !



TRUE hearted was he, the sad swain o’the Yarrow,

And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr, But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river,

Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair :

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