JOCKY SAID TO JEANY.

Jocky said to Jeany, Jeany, wilt thou do't?
Ne'er a fit, quo' Jeany, for my tocher-good,
For my tocher-good, I winna marry thee.
E'ens ye like, quo' Jockey, ye may let it be.

I hae gowd and gear, I hae land enough,
I hae seven good owsen ganging in a pleugh,
Ganging in a pleugh, and linking o'er the lee,
And gin ye winna tak me, I can let ye be.

I hae a good ha' house, a barn and a byre,
A stack afore the door, I'll make a rantin fire,
I'll make a rantin fire, and merry hall we be:
And gin ye winna tak me, I can let ye be.

Jeany said to Jocky, Gin ye winna tell,
Ye shall be the lad, I'll be the lass mysell.
Ye're a bonny lad, and I'm a lassie free,
Ye're welcomer to tak me than to let me be.

JENNY DANG THE WEAVER
JENNY lap, and Jenny flang,
Jenny dang the weaver ;
The piper played as Jenny sprang,
An' aye she dang the weaver.

As I cam in by Fisherrow,
Musselburgh was near me,
I threw aff the mussel-pock,

And courtit wi' my deerie.

Had Jenny's apron bidden down

The kirk wad ne'er hae ken'd it; But now the word 's gane thro' the town, The devil canna mend it.

Jenny lap, and Jenny flang,

Jenny dang the weaver;

The piper played as Jenny sprang, And aye she dang the weaver.

As I went out ae May morning,

Ae May morning it happened to be, O there I saw a very bonnie lass

Come linkin' o'er the lea to me. And O she was a weel-faud lass,

Sweet as the flower sae newly sprung; I said, fair maid, an' ye fancy me, When she laughing said, I am too young.

To be your bride I am too young,

And far our proud to be your loon; This is the merry month of May,

But I'll be aulder, Sir, in June. The hawthorns flourished fresh and fair, And o'er our heads the small birds sing, And never a word the lassie said, But, gentle Sir, I am too young.

THE WEE, WEE GERMAN LAIRDIE.

WHA the deil hae we gotten for a king,
But a wee, wee German lairdie?
And, when we gaed to bring him,

He was delving in his yardie:
Sheughing kail, and laying leeks,
But the hose, and but the breeks;
And up his beggar duds he cleeks

This wee, wee German lairdie.

And he's clapt down in our gudeman's chair,
The wee, wee German lairdie;
And he's brought fouth o' foreign trash,
And dibbled them in his yardie.
He's pu'd the rose o' English loons,
And broken the harp o' Irish clowns;
But our thistle taps will jag his thumbs-
This wee, wee German lairdie.

Come up amang our Highland hills,

Thou wee, wee German lairdie, And see the Stuart's lang-kail thrive We dibbled in our yardie: And if a stock ye dare to pu', Or haud the yoking o' a plough, We'll break your sceptre o'er your mou', Thou wee bit German lairdie.

Our hills are steep, our glens are deep,
Nae fitting for a yardie;
And our Norland thistles winna pu',
Thou wee bit German lairdie:
And we've the trenching blades o' weir,
Wad prune ye o' your German gear-

Thou feckless German lairdie!