Has nouther blankets nor sheets,

Nor scarce a coverlet too; The bride that has a' to borrow, Has e'en right meikle ado." Woo'd and married, &c.

Out spake the bride's father,

As he came in frae the pleugh, "O had yere tongue, my daughter, And yese get gear enough; The stirk that stands i' the tether, And our bra' basin'd yade, Will carry ye hame yere corn; What wad ye be at ye jade?" Woo'd and married, &c.

Outspake the bride's mither,

"What deil needs a' this pride? I had nae a plack in my pouch That night I was a bride; My gown was linsy-woolsy,

And ne'er a sark ava,

"What's the matter?" quo' Willie, "Tho' we be scant o' claiths, We'll creep the nearer thegither, And we'll smoor a' the fleas ; Simmer is coming on,

And we'll get teats o' woo; And we'll get a lass o' our ain, And she'll spin claiths anew. Woo'd and married, &c.

Outspake the bride's brither,
As he came in wi' the kye,
"Puir Willie had ne'er hae ta'en

Had he kent ye as weel as I;
For you're baith proud and saucy,

And no for a puir man's wife,
Gin I canna get a better,

I'se never take ane i my life."
Woo'd and married, &c.

Outspake the bride's sister,

As she came in frae the byre, "O gin I were but married, It's a' that desire;

ye,

But we puir folk maun live single,
And do the best we can;

I dinna care what I should want,

"

If I could but get a man."

Woo'd and married and a',
Woo'd and married and a',
Was she not very weel aff,
Was woo'd and married a’.

MUIRLAND WILLIE.

THIS lightsome ballad gives a particular drawing of those ruthless times "whan thieves were rife," and the lads went a wooing in their warlike habiliments, not knowing whether they would tilt with lips or lances. Willie's durk and pistols were buckled on for this uncertain encounter, and not for garnishing and adorning his person.*

* Though such iron-mitten'd handling now looks rude and familiar to the fashionable eye, yet we may deem ourselves the descendants of such lusty lovers; and that our great great grandmothers were touzled by fingers perhaps as rude as the sheepsmearing hands of good Muirland Willie. The worthy old cot

tars

MUIRLAND WILLIE.

Hearken, and I will tell you how
Young Muirland Willie came to woo,
Tho' he could neither say nor do;
The truth I tell to you.

But ay he crys, whate'er betide,
Maggy, I'se ha'e her to be my bride,
With a fal, dal, &c.

tars gloried in seeing a well-dressed wooer, half smothered in cloth of home manufacture.

Such were the ideas of a blythe old soul who lived at the Isle, in the holms of Nithsdale, when a weaver lad had stilted the Nith, to court his daughter.—“ He's weel arrayed, hear ye me, dame; he's weel arrayed-he has twa tap coats, and a plaid on!"

Such a dowry as Willie's bride got was a dowry of some value in those moneyless times. Here is a fragment of a curious marriage portion which was bestowed on a Nithsdale bride about a century ago.

-a

"Twa rigs o' run rig land-twa kye, wi' sax Ewes and
"their lambs, auld stock o' Tinwald. A tumbler car*—
"single naig harrow, wi' iron fore teeth-a Plow, wi' a'
"its graithings-Twa coils o' hair tether, wi' twa widdie
"Creels, and * * *
By and attour sixty merks for
"House plenishing-The calfskin covered Bible, black
<< prent o' the Persecution!" 1728, or 9.

* A sledge, or hurdle, with two small wheels, drawn by a single horse, used

in those mountainous parts of the country where carts cannot pass.

On his gray yade as he did ride,
With durk and pistol by his side,
He prick'd her on wi' meikle pride,
Wi' meikle mirth and glee.

Out o'er yon moss, out o'er yon muir,
Till he came to her dady's door,
With a fal, dal, &c.

Goodman, quoth he, be ye within,
I'm come your doghter's love to win,
I care no for making meikle din;
What answer gi' ye me?

Now, wooer, quoth he, wou'd ye light down, I'll gie ye my doghter's love to win,

With a fal, dal, &c.

Now, wooer, sin ye are lighted down,
Where do ye win, or in what town?
I think my doghter winna gloom
On sic a lad as ye.

The wooer he step'd up the house,

And wow! but he was wondrous crouse,
With a fal, dal, &c.

I have three owsen in a plough,
Twa good ga'en yads, and gear enough,
The place they ca' it Cadeneugh;
I scorn to tell a lie: