My mammie coft me a new gown,
     The kirk maun hae the gracing o’t;
     Were I to lie wi’ you, kind Sir,
     I’m feared ye’d spoil the lacing o’t. 
     I’m o’er young, &c.

     Hallowmass is come and gane,
     The nights are lang in winter, sir,
     And you an’ I in ae bed,
     In trowth, I dare na venture, sir. 
     I’m o’er young, &c.

     Fu’ loud an’ shill the frosty wind
     Blaws thro’ the leafless timmer, sir;
     But if ye come this gate again;
     I’ll aulder be gin simmer, sir. 
     I’m o’er young, &c.

To The Weavers Gin Ye Go

     My heart was ance as blithe and free
     As simmer days were lang;
     But a bonie, westlin weaver lad
     Has gart me change my sang.

     Chorus.—­To the weaver’s gin ye go, fair maids,
     To the weaver’s gin ye go;
     I rede you right, gang ne’er at night,
     To the weaver’s gin ye go.

     My mither sent me to the town,
     To warp a plaiden wab;
     But the weary, weary warpin o’t
     Has gart me sigh and sab. 
     To the weaver’s, &c.

     A bonie, westlin weaver lad
     Sat working at his loom;
     He took my heart as wi’ a net,
     In every knot and thrum. 
     To the weaver’s, &c.

     I sat beside my warpin-wheel,
     And aye I ca’d it roun’;
     But every shot and evey knock,
     My heart it gae a stoun. 
     To the weaver’s, &c.

     The moon was sinking in the west,
     Wi’ visage pale and wan,
     As my bonie, westlin weaver lad
     Convoy’d me thro’ the glen. 
     To the weaver’s, &c.

     But what was said, or what was done,
     Shame fa’ me gin I tell;
     But Oh!  I fear the kintra soon
     Will ken as weel’s myself! 
     To the weaver’s, &c.

M’Pherson’s Farewell

     Tune—­“M’Pherson’s Rant.”

     Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong,
     The wretch’s destinie! 
     M’Pherson’s time will not be long
     On yonder gallows-tree.

     Chorus.—­Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,
     Sae dauntingly gaed he;
     He play’d a spring, and danc’d it round,
     Below the gallows-tree.

     O, what is death but parting breath? 
     On many a bloody plain
     I’ve dared his face, and in this place
     I scorn him yet again! 
     Sae rantingly, &c.

     Untie these bands from off my hands,
     And bring me to my sword;
     And there’s no a man in all Scotland
     But I’ll brave him at a word. 
     Sae rantingly, &c.

     I’ve liv’d a life of sturt and strife;
     I die by treacherie: 
     It burns my heart I must depart,
     And not avenged be. 
     Sae rantingly, &c.