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 amang them a’,

‘Ye are na Mary Morison!’

O, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?

Or canst thou break that heart of his,

Whase only faut is loving thee?

If love for love thou wilt na gie,

At least be pity to me shown:

A thought ungentle canna be

The thought o Mary Morison.

GREEN GROW THE RASHES, O

CHORUS

Green grow the rashes, O;

Green grow the rashes, O;

The sweetest hours that e’er I spend,

Are spent among the lasses, O.

There’s nought but care on evry han’,

In every hour that passes, O:

What signifies the life o man,

An ’twere na for the lasses, O.

The war’ly race may riches chase,

An riches still may fly them, O;

An tho at last they catch them fast,

Their hearts can ne’er enjoy them, O.

But gie me a cannie hour at e’en,

My arms about my dearie, O,

An war’ly cares an war’ly men,

May a’ gae tapsalteerie, O!

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this;

Ye’re nought but senseless asses, O:

The wisest man the warl’ e’er saw,

He dearly lov’d the lasses, O.

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears

Her noblest work she classes, O:

Her prentice han’ she try’d on man,

An then she made the lasses, O.

A POET’S WELCOME TO HIS LOVE-BEGOTTEN DAUGHTER

Thou’s welcome, wean! Mishanter fa’ me,

If thoughts of thee, or yet thy Mamie,

Shall ever daunton me or awe me

My bonie lady;

Or if I blush when thou shalt ca’ me

Tyta, or daddie.

What tho they ca’ me fornicator,

An tease my name in kintra clatter,

The mair they talk, I’m ken’d the better,

E’en let them clash!

An auld wife’s tongue’s a feckless matter

To gie ane fash.

Welcome my bonie, sweet, wee dochter!

Tho ye come here a wee unsought for,

And tho your comin I hae fought for,

Baith Kirk and Queir;

Yet, by my faith, ye’re no unwrought for,

That I shall swear!

Sweet fruit o monie a merry dint,

My funny toil is no a’ tint,

Tho thou cam to the warl’ asklent,

Which fools may scoff at,

In my last plack your part’s be in’t

The better half o’t.

Tho I should be the waur bestead,

Thou’s be as braw and bienly clad,

And thy young years as nicely bred

Wi education,

As onie brat o wedlock’s bed,

In a’ thy station.

Lord grant that thou may ay inherit

Thy mither’s looks an gracefu merit,

An thy poor, worthless daddie’s spirit.

Without his failins!

Twill please me mair to see thee heir it,

Than stocket mailins.

For if thou be what I wad hae thee,

An tak the counsel I shall gie thee,

I’ll never rue my trouble wi thee,

The cost nor shame o’t,