Her e’en, sae bonie blue, betray
     How she repays my passion;
     But prudence is her o’erword aye,
     She talks o’ rank and fashion. 
     O why, &c.

     O wha can prudence think upon,
     And sic a lassie by him? 
     O wha can prudence think upon,
     And sae in love as I am? 
     O why, &c.

     How blest the simple cotter’s fate! 
     He woos his artless dearie;
     The silly bogles, wealth and state,
     Can never make him eerie,
     O why, &c.

On Politics

     In Politics if thou would’st mix,
     And mean thy fortunes be;
     Bear this in mind,—­be deaf and blind,
     Let great folk hear and see.

Braw Lads O’ Galla Water

     Braw, braw lads on Yarrow-braes,
     They rove amang the blooming heather;
     But Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws
     Can match the lads o’ Galla Water.

     But there is ane, a secret ane,
     Aboon them a’ I loe him better;
     And I’ll be his, and he’ll be mine,
     The bonie lad o’ Galla Water.

     Altho’ his daddie was nae laird,
     And tho’ I hae nae meikle tocher,
     Yet rich in kindest, truest love,
     We’ll tent our flocks by Galla Water.

     It ne’er was wealth, it ne’er was wealth,
     That coft contentment, peace, or pleasure;
     The bands and bliss o’ mutual love,
     O that’s the chiefest warld’s treasure.

Sonnet Written On The Author’s Birthday,

     On hearing a Thrush sing in his Morning Walk.

     Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,
     Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain,
     See aged Winter, ’mid his surly reign,
     At thy blythe carol, clears his furrowed brow.

     So in lone Poverty’s dominion drear,
     Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart;
     Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part,
     Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear.

     I thank thee, Author of this opening day! 
     Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies! 
     Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys—­
     What wealth could never give nor take away!

     Yet come, thou child of poverty and care,
     The mite high heav’n bestow’d, that mite with thee I’ll share.

Wandering Willie—­First Version

     Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie,
     Now tired with wandering, haud awa hame;
     Come to my bosom, my ae only dearie,
     And tell me thou bring’st me my Willie the same. 
     Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting;
     It was na the blast brought the tear in my e’e: 
     Now welcome the Simmer, and welcome my Willie,
     The Simmer to Nature, my Willie to me.