As I was walking up the street,
A barefit maid I chanc'd to meet; But oh the road was very hard
For that fair maiden's tender feet.
It were mair meet that those fine feet
Were weel lac'd up in silken shoon,
And 'twere more fit that she should sit
Within yon chariot gilt aboon.
Her yellow hair, beyond compare,
Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck;
And her two eyes, like stars in skies,
Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck.
OH! MEIKLE THINKS MY LOVE O' MY BEAUTY.
TUNE-My Tocher's the Jewel.
Oн meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty,
And meikle thinks my luve of my kin;
But little thinks my luve I can brawlie
My tocher's the jewel has charms for
him.
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree;
It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, He canna hae luve to spare for me.
Your proffer o' luve's an arle-penny,
My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ;
But an' ye be crafty, I am cunnin',
Sae ye wi' another 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.
OH MY LOVE'S LIKE A RED, RED ROSE.
TUNE-Graham's Strathspey.
Oн, my luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
Oh, my luve's like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I :
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.
OH! POORTITH CAULD.
TUNE-I had a Horse.
OH poortith cauld, and restless love, Ye wreck my peace between ye; Yet poortith a' I could forgive,
An 'twere na for my
Oh 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,
Oh why, &c.
Her een sae bonnie blue betray
How she repays my passion;
But prudence is her o'erword aye,
She talks of rank and fashion.
Oh why, &c.
Oh wha can prudence think upon,
And sic a lassie by him?
Oh wha can prudence think upon,
And sae in love as I am?
Oh why, &c.
How blest the humble cotter's fate!
He wooes his simple dearie;
The silly bogles, wealth and state,
Can never make them eerie.
Oh why, &c.
OH STAY, SWEET WARBLING
WOOD-LARK, STAY.
TUNE-Where 'll bonnie Ann lie? or, Loch-Eroch
Side.
Oн stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay,
Nor quit for me the trembling spray,
A hapless lover courts thy lay,
Thy soothing, fond complaining.
Again, again that tender part,
That I may catch thy melting art;
For surely that wad touch her heart
Wha kills me wi' disdaining.
Say, was thy little mate unkind,
And heard thee as the careless wind?
Oh! nocht but love and sorrow join'd,
Sic notes o' woe could wauken.
Thou tells o' never-ending care:
O' speechless grief, and dark despair;
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair,
Or my poor heart is broken!
OH STEER HER UP.
TUNE-Oh steer her up, and haud her gaun.
OH steer her up and hand her gaun-
Her mother's at the mill, jo;
And gin she winna take a man,
E'en let her take her will, jo :
First shore her wi' a kindly kiss,
And ca' another gill, jo,
And gin she take the thing amiss,
E'en let her flyte her fill, jo.
Oh steer her up, and be na blate,
And gin she take it ill, jo,
Then lea'e the lassie till her fate,
And time nae langer spill, jo:
Ne'er break your heart for ae rebute,
But think upon it still, jo:
Then gin the lassie winna do't,
Ye'll fin' anither will, jo.
OH, TELL NA ME O' WIND AND
RAIN.
Oн tell na me o' wind and rain,
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain ;
Gae back the gait ye cam again,
I winna let you in jo!
I tell you now this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
And ance for a' this ae night,
I winna let you in, jo.
The snellest blast, at mirkest hours
That round the pathless wand'rer pours,
Is nocht to what poor she endures,
That's trusted faithless man, jo.
|