And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest, The brightest o' beauty may cloy when possest! But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie imprest, The langer ye hae them, the mair they're carest, Then hey, &c.

MEG O' THE MILL.

AIR “O bonie lass, will you lie in a barrack?”

O KEN ye what Meg o' the 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 strappan, 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 taen 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 fix'd on a mailen!
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle,
But, gie me my love, and a fig for the war

MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL

O MEIKLE thinks my luve o' my beauty,
And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin;
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie,

My tocher's the jewel has charms for him.
I's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree,

It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee;
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller,
He canna hae luve to spare for me.

Your proffer o' luve's an airl-penny,
My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy;
But an' ye be crafty, I am cunnin',

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try.
Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood,
Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree;

Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread,
And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me.

AULD ROB MORRIS.

THERE'S auld Rob Morris, that wons in yon glen, He's the king o' guid fellows, and wale of auld men' He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And ae bonie lassie, his darl ng and mine.

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
She's sweet as the evening amang the new hay;
As blithe and as artless as the lambs on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.

But oh! she's an heiress auld Robin's a laird,

And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard'
A wooer like me mauna hope to come speed,
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane;
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

O had she but been of lower degree,

I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me;
O, how past describing had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction no words can express.

Yestreen I met you on the moor;

Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure; Ye geck at me because I'm poor, But fient a hair care I.

O Tibbie, &c.

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think,
Because ye hae the name o' clink,
That ye can please me at a wink,
Whene'er ye like to try.

O Tibbie, &c.

But sorrow tak him that's sae mean,
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean,

Wha follows any saucy quean
That looks sae proud and high.
O Tibbie, &c.

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart,
If that he want the yellow dirt,
Ye'll cast your head anither airt,
And answer him fu' dry.
O Tibbie, &c.

But if he hae the name o' gear,
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier,
Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear,
Be better than the kye.

O Tibbie, &c.

But Tibbie, lass, tak my advice,

Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice,

The deil a one wad spier your price,

Were ye as poor as I.

O Tibbie, &c

There lives a lass in yonder park,
I wad nae gie her in her sark,
For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark:
Ye needna look sae high.

O Tibbie, &c.

DUNCAN GRAY.

DUNCAN GRAY came here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,

On blithe yule night when we were fu;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Maggie coost her head fu' high,
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh:
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan fleech'd and Duncan pray'd;
Ha, ha, &c.

Meg was deaf as Ailsa craig:
Ha, ha, &c.

Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',
Spak o' louping o'er a linn:

Ha, ha, &c.

Time and chance are but a tide.
Ha, ha, &c.

Slighted love is sair to bide:
Ha, ha, &c.