“Dear Marion, let that flee stick fast to the wa’;
      Your Jock ’s but a gowk, and has naething ava;
    The hale o’ his pack he has now on his back—­
      He ’s thretty, and I am but threescore and twa. 
    Be frank now and kindly; I ’ll busk ye aye finely;
      To kirk or to market they ’ll few gang sae braw;
    A bein house to bide in, a chaise for to ride in,
      And flunkies to ’tend ye as aft as ye ca’.”

    “My father ‘s aye tauld me, my mither and a’,
      Ye ’d mak a gude husband, and keep me aye braw;
    It ’s true I lo’e Johnnie, he ’s gude and he ’s bonnie;
      But, waes me! ye ken he has naething ava. 
    I hae little tocher; you ’ve made a gude offer;
      I ‘m now mair than twenty—­my time is but sma’;
    Sae gi’e me your plaidie, I ’ll creep in beside ye—­
      I thocht ye ’d been aulder than threescore and twa.”

    She crap in ayont him, aside the stane wa’,
      Whare Johnnie was list’ning, and heard her tell a’;
    The day was appointed, his proud heart it dunted,
      And strack ’gainst his side as if bursting in twa. 
    He wander’d hame weary, the night it was dreary;
      And, thowless, he tint his gate ’mang the deep snaw;
    The owlet was screamin’ while Johnnie cried, “Women
      Wad marry Auld Nick if he ’d keep them aye braw.”

I LO’ED NE’ER A LADDIE BUT ANE.[15]

    I lo’ed ne’er a laddie but ane,
      He lo’ed ne’er a lassie but me;
    He ‘s willing to mak’ me his ain,
      And his ain I am willing to be. 
    He has coft me a rokelay o’ blue,
      And a pair o’ mittens o’ green;
    The price was a kiss o’ my mou’,
      And I paid him the debt yestreen.

    Let ithers brag weel o’ their gear,
      Their land and their lordly degree;
    I carena for aught but my dear,
      For he ’s ilka thing lordly to me: 
    His words are sae sugar’d and sweet! 
      His sense drives ilk fear far awa’! 
    I listen, poor fool! and I greet;
      Yet how sweet are the tears as they fa’!

    “Dear lassie,” he cries, wi’ a jeer,
      “Ne’er heed what the auld anes will say;
    Though we ‘ve little to brag o’, near fear—­
      What ’s gowd to a heart that is wae? 
    Our laird has baith honours and wealth,
      Yet see how he ‘s dwining wi’ care;
    Now we, though we ’ve naething but health,
      Are cantie and leal evermair.

    “O Marion! the heart that is true,
      Has something mair costly than gear! 
    Ilk e’en it has naething to rue,
      Ilk morn it has naething to fear. 
    Ye warldlings! gae hoard up your store,
      And tremble for fear aught ye tyne;
    Guard your treasures wi’ lock, bar, and door,
      While here in my arms I lock mine!”