“My neebours,” she sang, “aften jeer me,
      An’ ca’ me daft haluckit Meg,
    An’ say they expect soon to hear me,
      I’ the kirk, for my fun, get a fleg. 
    An’ now, ’bout my marriage they ’ll clatter,
      An’ Geordie, puir fallow, they ca’
    An auld doited hav’rel,—­nae matter,
      He ‘ll keep me aye brankin an’ braw.

    “I grant ye, his face is kenspeckle,
      That the white o’ his e’e is turn’d out,
    That his black beard is rough as a heckle,
      That his mou’ to his lug ’s rax’d about;
    But they needna let on that he ’s crazie,
      His pikestaff will ne’er let him fa’;
    Nor that his hair ’s white as a daisy,
      For fient a hair has he ava’.

    “But a weel-plenish’d mailin has Geordie,
      An’ routh o’ gude gowd in his kist,
    An’ if siller comes at my wordie,
      His beauty I never will miss ’t. 
    Daft gowks, wha catch fire like tinder,
      Think love-raptures ever will burn? 
    But wi’ poortith, hearts het as a cinder,
      Will cauld as an iceshugle turn.

    “There ’ll just be ae bar to my pleasures,
      A bar that ‘s aft fill’d me wi’ fear,
    He ’s sic a hard near-be-gawn miser,
      He likes his saul less than his gear. 
    But though I now flatter his failin’,
      An’ swear nought wi’ gowd can compare,
    Gude sooth! it shall soon get a scailin’,
      His bags sall be mouldie nae mair!

    “I dreamt that I rode in a chariot,
      A flunkie ahint me in green;
    While Geordie cried out he was harriet,
      An’ the saut tear was blindin’ his een. 
    But though ‘gainst my spendin’ he swear aye,
      I’ll hae frae him what ser’s my turn;
    Let him slip awa’ whan he grows wearie;
      Shame fa’ me, gin lang I wad mourn!”

    But Geordie, while Meg was haranguin’,
      Was cloutin’ his breeks i’ the bauks;
    An’ whan a’ his failin’s she brang in,
      His strang hazel pikestaff he taks,
    Designin’ to rax her a lounder,
      He chanced on the lather to shift,
    An’ down frae the bauks, flat ’s a flounder,
      Flew like a shot starn frae the lift!

MY DEAR LITTLE LASSIE.

    My dear little lassie, why, what ‘s a’ the matter? 
      My heart it gangs pittypat—­winna lie still;
    I ‘ve waited, and waited, an’ a’ to grow better,
      Yet, lassie, believe me, I ‘m aye growin’ ill! 
    My head ‘s turn’d quite dizzy, an’ aft, when I ‘m speakin’,
      I sigh, an’ am breathless, and fearfu’ to speak;
    I gaze aye for something I fain would be seekin’,
      Yet, lassie, I kenna weel what I would seek.