Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem,
     The pride of all the flowery scene,
     Just opening on its thorny stem;
     An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.

     Her bosom’s like the nightly snow,
     When pale the morning rises keen,
     While hid the murm’ring streamlets flow;
     An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.

     Her lips are like yon cherries ripe,
     That sunny walls from Boreas screen;
     They tempt the taste and charm the sight;
     An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.

     Her teeth are like a flock of sheep,
     With fleeces newly washen clean,
     That slowly mount the rising steep;
     An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.

     Her breath is like the fragrant breeze,
     That gently stirs the blossom’d bean,
     When Phoebus sinks behind the seas;
     An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.

     Her voice is like the ev’ning thrush,
     That sings on Cessnock banks unseen,
     While his mate sits nestling in the bush;
     An’ she has twa sparkling roguish een.

     But it’s not her air, her form, her face,
     Tho’ matching beauty’s fabled queen;
     ’Tis the mind that shines in ev’ry grace,
     An’ chiefly in her roguish een.

Song—­Bonie Peggy Alison

     Tune—­“The Braes o’ Balquhidder.”

     Chor.—­And I’ll kiss thee yet, yet,
     And I’ll kiss thee o’er again: 
     And I’ll kiss thee yet, yet,
     My bonie Peggy Alison.

     Ilk care and fear, when thou art near
     I evermair defy them, O! 
     Young kings upon their hansel throne
     Are no sae blest as I am, O! 
     And I’ll kiss thee yet, yet, &c.

     When in my arms, wi’ a’ thy charms,
     I clasp my countless treasure, O! 
     I seek nae mair o’ Heaven to share
     Than sic a moment’s pleasure, O! 
     And I’ll kiss thee yet, yet, &c.

     And by thy een sae bonie blue,
     I swear I’m thine for ever, O! 
     And on thy lips I seal my vow,
     And break it shall I never, O! 
     And I’ll kiss thee yet, yet, &c.

Song—­Mary Morison

     Tune—­“Bide ye yet.”

     O Mary, at thy window be,
     It is the wish’d, the trysted hour! 
     Those smiles and glances let me see,
     That make the miser’s treasure poor: 
     How blythely was I bide the stour,
     A weary slave frae sun to sun,
     Could I the rich reward secure,
     The lovely Mary Morison.

     Yestreen, when to the trembling string
     The dance gaed thro’ the lighted ha’,
     To thee my fancy took its wing,
     I sat, but neither heard nor saw: 
     Tho’ this was fair, and that was braw,
     And yon the toast of a’ the town,
     I sigh’d, and said among them a’,
     “Ye are na Mary Morison.”