Tarbolton Lasses, The

     If ye gae up to yon hill-tap,
     Ye’ll there see bonie Peggy;
     She kens her father is a laird,
     And she forsooth’s a leddy.

     There Sophy tight, a lassie bright,
     Besides a handsome fortune: 
     Wha canna win her in a night,
     Has little art in courtin’.

     Gae down by Faile, and taste the ale,
     And tak a look o’ Mysie;
     She’s dour and din, a deil within,
     But aiblins she may please ye.

     If she be shy, her sister try,
     Ye’ll maybe fancy Jenny;
     If ye’ll dispense wi’ want o’ sense—­
     She kens hersel she’s bonie.

     As ye gae up by yon hillside,
     Speir in for bonie Bessy;
     She’ll gie ye a beck, and bid ye light,
     And handsomely address ye.

     There’s few sae bonie, nane sae guid,
     In a’ King George’ dominion;
     If ye should doubt the truth o’ this—­
     It’s Bessy’s ain opinion!

     Ah, Woe Is Me, My Mother Dear

     Paraphrase of Jeremiah, 15th Chap., 10th verse.

     Ah, woe is me, my mother dear! 
     A man of strife ye’ve born me: 
     For sair contention I maun bear;
     They hate, revile, and scorn me.

     I ne’er could lend on bill or band,
     That five per cent. might blest me;
     And borrowing, on the tither hand,
     The deil a ane wad trust me.

     Yet I, a coin-denied wight,
     By Fortune quite discarded;
     Ye see how I am, day and night,
     By lad and lass blackguarded!

Montgomerie’s Peggy

     Tune—­“Galla Water.”

     Altho’ my bed were in yon muir,
     Amang the heather, in my plaidie;
     Yet happy, happy would I be,
     Had I my dear Montgomerie’s Peggy.

     When o’er the hill beat surly storms,
     And winter nights were dark and rainy;
     I’d seek some dell, and in my arms
     I’d shelter dear Montgomerie’s Peggy.

     Were I a baron proud and high,
     And horse and servants waiting ready;
     Then a’ ‘twad gie o’ joy to me,—­
     The sharin’t with Montgomerie’s Peggy.

Ploughman’s Life, The

     As I was a-wand’ring ae morning in spring,
     I heard a young ploughman sae sweetly to sing;
     And as he was singin’, thir words he did say,—­
     There’s nae life like the ploughman’s in the month o’ sweet May.

     The lav’rock in the morning she’ll rise frae her nest,
     And mount i’ the air wi’ the dew on her breast,
     And wi’ the merry ploughman she’ll whistle and sing,
     And at night she’ll return to her nest back again.

1780

Ronalds Of The Bennals, The

     In Tarbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men,
     And proper young lasses and a’, man;
     But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals,
     They carry the gree frae them a’, man.