The ftirk that stands i' the tethar,
And our bra' bafin'd yad,
Will carry ye hame your corn,
What wad ye be at, ye jade.
Woo'd, and married, &c.

Out then fpak the bride's mither.
What d-l'needs a' this pride;
I had nae a plack i' me pouch
That night I was a bride e;
My gown was linfy-woolfy,
And ne'er a fark ava;

And ye hae ribbands and bufkins,

Mae than ane or twa,

Woo'd, and married, &c.

What's the matter, quo' Willie,
Though we be fcant o' claiths,
We'll creep the nearer the gither,
And we'll fmoar a' the flaes;
Simmer is coming on'

And we'll get teats of woo;
And we'll hae a lafs o' our ain,
And fh'ell fpin claiths anew...
Woo'd, and married, &c.

Out then fpak the bride's brither,
As he came in wi' the ky;
Poor Willie had ne'er a' ta'en ye,
Had he kend you as weel as I d
For ye're baith proud and fawcy,
And nae for a poor man's wife;
Gin I cannot get a far better,
I'fe never take ane i' my life,
Woo'd, and married, &c.

Out then fpak the bride's fifter,
As fhe came in fra the byre;
O gin I were but married,
" Tis a' that I defire:

But we poor folk maun live fingle,
And do the best we can;

I dinna care what I should want,
If I cou'd get but a man,

Woo'd, and married, and a'

Woo'd, and married, and a' And was she nae very weel aff,

That was woo'd, and married, and a'.

"TW

LIV. The Rofe in Yarrow.

Tune, Mary Scot.

WAS Summer, and the day was fair,
Refolv'd a while to fly from care,
Beguiling thought, forgetting forrow,
I wander'd o'er the braes of Yarrow!
Till then defpifing beauty's pow's,
I kept my heart, my own fecure;
But Cupid's art did there deceive me,
And Mary's charms do now enslave me,
Will cruel love no bribe receive!
No ranfom take for Mary's flave?
Her frowns of reft and hope deprive me,
Her lovely fmiles like light revive me.
No bondage may with mine compare,
Snce firft I faw this charming fair;
This beauteous flow'r, this rofe of Yarrow,
In nature's gardens has no marrow.
Had I of heav'n but one request,
I'll ask to lie on Mary's breaft;
There would I live or die with pleasure,
Nor fpair this world one moment's leifure
Defpifing kings, and all that's great,
I'd fmile at courts and courtier's fate,
My joy compleat on fuch a marrow,
I'd dwell with her, and live on Yarrow.
But though fuch blifs I ne'er fhould gain,
Contented ftill I'll wear my chain,

In hopes my faithful heart may move her;
For, leaving life, I'll always love her;
What doubts diftract a lover's mind?
That breaft, all foftnefs, muft prove kind;
And the fhall yet become my marrow,
The lovely, beauteous rofe of Yarrow.

LV. ROB's JOCK.

ROB's Jock came to woo our Jenny
On a feaft-day, when we were fou;
She brankit faft, and made her bonny,
And faid, Jock came ye here to woo?
She burnift her, baith breaft and brou,
And made her clear as ony clock:

Then fpak her dame, and faid, I trou
Ye come to woo our Jenny, Jock.
Jock faid, forfuth, I yearn fu' fain
To luk my head, and fit down by you:
Then fpak her miny, and faid again,
My bairn has tocher enough to gie you.
Tehee! quo' Jenny, kick, kick, I fee you,
Minny, yon man makes but a mock.

Deil hae the liars-fu' leis me o' you,
I come to woo your Jenny, quo' Jock.
My bairn has tocher of her ain;
A goofe, a gryce, a cock and hen,
A ftirk, a ftaig. an acre fawin,

A bake-bread and a bannock-ftane;
A pig, a pat, a kirn there-ben,
A kame-but, and a kaming-stock;
With coags and luggies nine or ten,
Come ye to woo our Jenny, Jock?
A wecht, a peet-creel, and a cradle,
A pair of clips, a graip, a flail,
An ark, an ambry, and a ladle,
A milfie, and a fown-pale,

A roufty whittle to fheer the kale,
And a timber mell the beer to knock,
Twa fhelfs made of an auld fir-dale;
Come ye to woo our Jenny, Jock?
A furm, a furlet, and a peck,
A rock, a reel, and a wheel-band,
A tub, a barrow, and a feck,
A fpurtil-braid, and an elwand.

Then Jock took Jenny be the hand, And cry'd, a feaft? and flew a cock, And made a bridle upo' hand," Now I hae got your Jenny, quo' Jock. Now dame, I hae your doghter marri'd, And though ye mak it ne'er fae teugh, I let you wit he's nae mifcarry'd, 'Tis weel kend I hae gear enough: Ane auld gau'd gloy'd fell owr a heugh, A fpade, a fpeet, a fpur, a fock;

Withoutten owfen I hae a pleugh;
May that nae fer your Jenny? quo' Jock.
A treen truncher, a ram-horn fpoon,
Twa buits of barkint blafint leather,
A graith that ganes to coble thoon,
And a thrawcruik to twyne a tether;
Twa crooks that moup amang the heather,
A pair of branks, and a fetter lock,
A teugh purfe made of a fwin's blather,
To had your tocher, Jenny, quo' Jock.
Good elding for our winter fire,

A cod of caff wad fill a craddle,
A rake of iron to clat the byre,.
A deuk about the dubs to paddle,
The pannel of an auld led-faddle,
And Rob my eem hetch me a ftock,
Twa lufty lips to lick a laddle;
May thir no gane your Jenny? quo' Jock.
A pair of hams and brechim fine,

And, without bitts, a bridle renzie,
A fark made of the linkfome twine,
A gay green cloke that will not stenzie:
Mair yet in ftore-I needna frenzie,
Five hundred flaes, a fendy flock;

And are na thae a wakrife menzie,
To gae to bed wi' Jenny and Jock?
Tak thir for my part of the feaft,

It is well kend I am well bodin;
Ye need na fay my part is leaft,
Were they as meikle as they'r lodin;

The wife fpeer'd gin the kail were fodin; Whan we hae done, tak hame the brok; The roaft was teugh as raploch hodin, With which they feafted Jenny and Jock.

LVI. The Cobler's Happiness.

Tune, Come let us prepare, &c.

LET matters of ftate difquiet the great,

The cobler has nought to perplex him;
Has nought but his wife to ruffle his life,
And her he can ftrap, if fhe vex him.
He's out of the pow'r of fortune that whore,
Since low, as can be, fhe has thrust him.
From duns he's fecure; for being fo poor,
There's none can be found that will truft him.

C. COFFE,

LVII. Tune, Over the hills, and far awa'

7ERE I laid on Greenland's coaft,

WERE

And in my arms embrac'd my lass:

Warm amidst eternal froft,

Too foon the half year's night would pafs, Were I fold on Indian foil,

Soon as the burning day was clos'd,

I could mock the fultry toil,

When on my charmer's breaft repos'd, And I would love you all the day;

Every night would kifs and play,

If with me you'd fondly ftray
Over the hills and far away

LVIII. Hunting Song going out.

HARK! away, 'tis the merry ton' horn
Calls the hunters all up with the morn.
F

J. GAY