Sair Mary wrought, sair Mary grat,
      She scarce could lift the ladle;
    Wi’ pithless feet, ’tween ilka greet,
      She ’d rock the borrow’d cradle. 
    Her weddin’ plenishin’ was gane,
      She never thocht to borrow: 
    Her bonnie face was waxin’ wan—­
      And Will wrought a’ the sorrow.

    He ‘s reelin’ hame ae winter’s nicht,
      Some later than the gloamin’;
    He ’s ta’en the rig, he ’s miss’d the brig,
      And Bogie ‘s ower him foamin’. 
    Wi’ broken banes, out ower the stanes,
      He creepit up Strabogie;
    And a’ the nicht he pray’d wi’ micht,
      To keep him frae the cogie.

    Now Mary’s heart is light again—­
      She ’s neither sick nor silly;
    For auld or young, nae sinfu’ tongue,
      Could e’er entice her Willie;
    And aye the sang through Bogie rang—­
      “O had ye frae the cogie;
    The weary gill ’s the sairest ill
      On braes o’ fair Strabogie.”

[54] This excellent ballad is the fourth version adapted to the air, “Cauld Kail in Aberdeen.”  Some notice of the three former will be found ante, p. 46.

HE’S OWER THE HILLS THAT I LO’E WEEL.

    He ’s ower the hills that I lo’e weel,
    He ’s ower the hills we daurna name;
    He ’s ower the hills ayont Dunblane,
      Wha soon will get his welcome hame.

    My father’s gane to fight for him,
    My brithers winna bide at hame;
    My mither greets and prays for them,
    And ’deed she thinks they ’re no to blame. 
          He ’s ower the hills, &c.

    The Whigs may scoff, the Whigs may jeer;
    But, ah! that love maun be sincere
    Which still keeps true whate’er betide,
    An’ for his sake leaves a’ beside. 
          He ’s ower the hills, &c.

    His right these hills, his right these plains;
    Ower Hieland hearts secure he reigns;
    What lads e’er did our laddies will do;
    Were I a laddie, I’d follow him too. 
          He ’s ower the hills, &c.

    Sae noble a look, sae princely an air,
    Sae gallant and bold, sae young and sae fair;
    Oh, did ye but see him, ye ’d do as we’ve done! 
    Hear him but ance, to his standard you ’ll run. 
          He ’s ower the hills, &c.

    Then draw the claymore, for Charlie then fight;
    For your country, religion, and a’ that is right;
    Were ten thousand lives now given to me,
    I ‘d die as aft for ane o’ the three. 
          He ’s ower the hills, &c.

THE LASS O’ GOWRIE.[55]

AIR—­"Loch Erroch Side."

    ’Twas on a summer’s afternoon,
    A wee afore the sun gaed down,
    A lassie, wi’ a braw new gown,
      Cam’ ower the hills to Gowrie. 
    The rose-bud, wash’d in summer’s shower,
    Bloom’d fresh within the sunny bower;
    But Kitty was the fairest flower
      That e’er was seen in Gowrie.