Now, wooer, sin ye

are lichtit down,

Where do ye win, or in what toun ?
I think my douchter winna gloom
On sic a lad as ye.

The wooer he steppit up the house,
And wow but he was wondrous crouse !
With a fal, dal, &c.

I hae three owsen in a pleuch,
Twa guid gaun yauds, and gear eneuch—
The place they ca' it Cadeneugh;
I scorn to tell a lie :

Besides I haud, frae the great laird,
A peat-spat and a lang-kale yard.
With a fal, dal, &c.

The maid pat on her kirtle broun;
She was the brawest in a' the toun;
I wat on him she did na gloom,
But blinkit bonnilie.

The lover he stendit up in haste,
And grippit her hard about the waist.
With a fal, dal, &c.

To win your love, maid, I'm come here;
I'm young, and hae eneuch o'

And for mysell ye needna fear,

gear;

Troth, try me when ye like.

He took aff his bannet, and spat in his chew, He dichtit his gab, and he pried her mou'. With a fal, dal, &c.

The maiden blush'd and beingit fu' law:

She hadna will to say

him na;

But to her daddie she left it a',

The luver he gave her the tither kiss, Syne ran to her daddie and tellt him this. With a fal, dal, &c.

Your douchter wadna say me na,
But to yoursell she has left it a',
As we could 'gree between us twa-

Say what will ye gie me wi' her?
Now, wooer, quoth he, I hae na mickle,
But sic as I hae ye'se get a pickle.
With a fal, dal, &c.

A kilnfu' o' corn I'll gie to thee,
Three soums o' sheep, twa gude milk kye;
Ye'se hae the waddin-dinner free;
Troth, I dow do nae mair.
Content, quoth Willie, a bargain be't;
I'm far frae hame; make haste, let's do't.
With a fal, dal, &c.

The bridal-day it came to pass,
With mony a blythsome lad and lass;
But siccan a day there never was,
Sic mirth was never seen.

This winsome couple straikit hands;
Mess John tied up the marriage-bands.
With a fal, dal, &c.

And our bride's maidens were na few,
Wi' tap-knots, lug-knots, a' in blue;
Frae tap to tae they were bran new,
And blinkit bonnilie.

Their toys and mutches were sae clean,
They glanced in our lads's een.
With a fal, dal, &c.

Sic hirdum-dirdum, and sic din,
Wi' he ower her, and she ower him;

The minstrels they did never blin',
Wi' mickle mirth and glee;
And aye they bobbit, and aye they beck't,
And aye they reel'd, and aye they set.
With a fal, dal, &c.*

MY SPOUSE NANCIE.

BURNS.

TUNE-My Jo Janet.

HUSBAND, husband, cease your strife,
Nor longer idly rave, sir;
Though I am your wedded wife,

Yet I'm not your slave, sir.

One of two must still obey,
Nancie, Nancie ;

Is it man or woman, say,
My spouse Nancie ?

If 'tis still the lordly word,
Service and obedience;
I'll desert my sovereign lord,
And so good-bye, allegiance!

Sad will I be so bereft,
Nancie, Nancie ;

In the Tea-Table Miscellany, where it first appeared, this song is marked as one of those of which the editor knew neither the age nor the history. It is certainly a composition of considerable antiquity; probably, from similarity of style and structure of verse, by the author of The Ga berlunzie Man. Muirland Willie is one of those perfect and unique delineations of character in which Scottish song abounds. He has a touch of the good old riding times about him, in the "durk and pistol by his side;" and he makes love with a confident ease, that is not more old-fashioned than it is manly, and every way admirable. His "chew," however, and the mutches with top-knots of the bride's maidens, make the era of Muirland Willie's courtship considerably later than might otherwise have been argued. It was printed in both the Tea-Table Miscellany (1724) and in the Orpheus Caledonius (2d edit. 1733.)

Yet I'll try to make a shift,
My spouse Nancie.

My poor heart then break it must,
My last hour I'm near it ;
When you lay me in the dust,
Think-think how you will bear it.

I will hope and trust in Heaven,
Nancie, Nancie,

Strength to bear it will be given,
My spouse Nancie.

Well, sir, from the silent dead,
Still I'll try to daunt you;
Ever round your midnight bed
Horrid sprites shall haunt you.

I'll wed another like my dear
Nancie, Nancie ;

Then all hell will fly for fear,
My spouse Nancie !

HARD IS THE FATE.

THOMSON.

HARD is the fate of him who loves,
Yet dares not tell his trembling pain,
But to the sympathetic groves,

Or to the lonely list'ning plain !
Oh, when she blesses next our shade,
Oh, when her footsteps next are seen

In flow'ry tracks along the mead,
In fresher mazes o'er the green,

Ye gentle spirits of the vale,

To whom the tears of love are dear,

From dying lilies waft a gale,

And sigh my sorrows in her ear!
Oh, tell her what she cannot blame,
Though fear my tongue must ever bind;
Oh, tell her that my virtuous flame
Is as her spotless soul refined!

Not her own guardian-angel eyes
With chaster tenderness his care,
Not purer her own wishes rise,

Not holier her own thoughts in prayer.
But if at first her virgin fear

Should start at love's suspected name, With that of friendship soothe her ear— True love and friendship are the same.

JOHN OCHILTREE.

TUNE-John Ochiltree.

HONEST man, John Ochiltree !
Mine ain auld John Ochiltree !
Wilt thou come ower the muir to me,
And do as thou wast wont to do?
Alake, alake! I wont to do!

Ochon! I wont to do!

Now wont to do's away

frae me,

Frae silly auld John Ochiltree.

Honest man, John Ochiltree,

Mine ain auld John Ochiltree,

Come ance out ower the muir to me,
And do but what thou dow to do.
Alake, alake! I dow to do!
Walaways! I dow to do!

To hoast, and hirple ower my tree,
My bonny muir-powt, is a' I may do.