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 darling and mine.

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; She's sweet as the ev'ning 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 Rabin's a laird,
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and

yard; A wooer like me maunna 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.

0, had she but been of lower degree, I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me! o, how past descriving had then been my bliss, As now my distraction no words can express !

Ee 2

DUNCAN GRAY.

DUNCAN GRAY came here to woo,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
On blythe 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.

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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 e'en baith bleer't and blin',
Spak' o' lowpin 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.
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 heal,

Ha, ha, &c.

Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings ;
And 0, her e'en, 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 could na be her death, Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; Now they're crouse and canty baith.

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

SONG.

Tune, I had a horse.'

O POORTITH cauld, and restless love,

Ye wreck my peace between ye; Yet poortith a' I could forgive,

An' 'twere na 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 bonnie blue betray

How she repays my passion ; But prudence is her o'erword ay, 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?

GALLA WATER.

THERE's braw braw lads on Yarrow braes,

That wander thro' the blooming heather ; But Yarrow braes, nor Ettric 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 bonnie'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 ; That bands and bliss o' mutual love,

O that's the chiefest warld's treasure !

LORD GREGORY.

O MInk, 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 ;
Al least some pity on me shaw,

If love it may na be.

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove,

By bonnie 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 ay be mine!
And my fond heart, itsel sae true,

It ne'er mistrusted thine.