Fragment,—­Damon And Sylvia

     Tune—­“The Tither Morn.”

     Yon wandering rill that marks the hill,
     And glances o’er the brae, Sir,
     Slides by a bower, where mony a flower
     Sheds fragrance on the day, Sir;
     There Damon lay, with Sylvia gay,
     To love they thought no crime, Sir,
     The wild birds sang, the echoes rang,
     While Damon’s heart beat time, Sir.

Johnie Lad, Cock Up Your Beaver

     When first my brave Johnie lad came to this town,
     He had a blue bonnet that wanted the crown;
     But now he has gotten a hat and a feather,
     Hey, brave Johnie lad, cock up your beaver!

     Cock up your beaver, and cock it fu’ sprush,
     We’ll over the border, and gie them a brush;
     There’s somebody there we’ll teach better behaviour,
     Hey, brave Johnie lad, cock up your beaver!

My Eppie Macnab

     O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie Macnab? 
     O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie Macnab? 
     She’s down in the yard, she’s kissin the laird,
     She winna come hame to her ain Jock Rab.

     O come thy ways to me, my Eppie Macnab;
     O come thy ways to me, my Eppie Macnab;
     Whate’er thou hast dune, be it late, be it sune,
     Thou’s welcome again to thy ain Jock Rab.

     What says she, my dearie, my Eppie Macnab? 
     What says she, my dearie, my Eppie Macnab? 
     She let’s thee to wit that she has thee forgot,
     And for ever disowns thee, her ain Jock Rab.

     O had I ne’er seen thee, my Eppie Macnab! 
     O had I ne’er seen thee, my Eppie Macnab! 
     As light as the air, and as fause as thou’s fair,
     Thou’s broken the heart o’ thy ain Jock Rab.

Altho’ He Has Left Me

     Altho’ he has left me for greed o’ the siller,
     I dinna envy him the gains he can win;
     I rather wad bear a’ the lade o’ my sorrow,
     Than ever hae acted sae faithless to him.

My Tocher’s The Jewel

     O Meikle thinks my luve o’ my beauty,
     And meikle thinks my luve o’ my kin;
     But little thinks my luve I ken 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 hinny he’ll cherish the bee,
     My laddie’s sae meikle in luve wi’ the siller,
     He canna hae luve to spare for me.

     Your proffer o’ luve’s an airle-penny,
     My tocher’s the bargain ye wad buy;
     But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin’,
     Sae ye wi anither your fortune may 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.