What siller does is most amazing,
Nane o’ them e’er look’d at me,
Now my charms they a’ are praising,
For my sake they ’re like to dee. 
The Laird, the Shirra, and the Doctor,
Wi’ twa three Lords o’ high degree;
Wi’ heaps o’ Writers I could mention—­
Oh, surely this is no me! 
But I ’ll no, &c.

The yett is now for ever ringing,
Showers o’ valentines aye bringing,
Fill’d wi’ Cupids, flames, and darts,
Fae auld and young, wi’ broken hearts. 
The siller, O the weary siller! 
Aft in toil and trouble sought,
But better far it should be sae,
Than that true hearts should e’er be bought. 
Sae I ’ll no, &c.

But there is ane, when I had naething,
A’ his heart he gi’ed to me;
And sair he toil’d for a wee thing,
To bring me when he cam frae sea. 
If ever I should marry ony,
He will be the lad for me;
For he was baith gude and bonny,
And he thought the same o’ me. 
Sae I ’ll no, &c.

[63] This song is printed from an improved version of the original, by a literary friend of the author.

THE MITHERLESS LAMMIE.

    The mitherless lammie ne’er miss’d its ain mammie,
      We tentit it kindly by night and by day,
    The bairnies made game o’t, it had a blithe hame o’t,
      Its food was the gowan—­its music was “mai.”

    Without tie or fetter, it couldna been better,
      But it would gae witless the world to see;
    The foe that it fear’d not, it saw not, it heard not,
      Was watching its wand’ring frae Bonnington Lea.

    Oh, what then befell it, ‘t were waefu’ to tell it,
      Tod Lowrie kens best, wi’ his lang head sae sly;
    He met the pet lammie, that wanted its mammie,
      And left its kind hame the wide world to try.

    We miss’d it at day-dawn, we miss’d it at night-fa’in’,
      Its wee shed is tenantless under the tree,
    Ae dusk i’ the gloamin’ it wad gae a roamin’;
      ’T will frolic nae mair upon Bonnington Lea.

THE ATTAINTED SCOTTISH NOBLES.[64]

    Oh, some will tune their mournfu’ strains,
      To tell o’ hame-made sorrow,
    And if they cheat you o’ your tears,
      They ’ll dry upon the morrow. 
    Oh, some will sing their airy dreams,
      In verity they’re sportin’,
    My sang ‘s o’ nae sic thieveless themes,
      But wakin’ true misfortune.

    Ye Scottish nobles, ane and a’,
      For loyalty attainted,
    A nameless bardie ’s wae to see
      Your sorrows unlamented;
    For if your fathers ne’er had fought
      For heirs of ancient royalty,
    Ye ’re down the day that might hae been
      At the top o’ honour’s tree a’.