Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd;
Ha, ha, &c.

Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,
Ha, ha, &c.

Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn;
Ha, ha, &c.

Time and chance are but a tide,
Ha, ha, &c.

Slighted love is sair to bide,

Ha, ha, &c.

Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie die?

She may gae to — France for me!
Ha, ha, &c.

Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings;

And O, her een, they spak sic things!
Ha, ha, &c.

Duncan was a lad o' grace,
Ha, ha, &c.

Maggie's was a piteous case,
Ha, ha, &c.

Duncan could na be her death,
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;
Now they're crouse and cantie baith,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

I LOVE MY JEAN.

Fa' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,

For there the bonnie lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best;

There wild woods grow, and rivers row,

And monie a hill between ;

By day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,

I see her sweet and fair;

I hear her in the tunefu' birds,

I hear her charm the air:

There's not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green;
There's not a bonnie bird that sings,

But minds me o' my Jean.

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.

JOHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither; And monie a canty day, John,

We've had wi' ane anither :

Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we 'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.

THE BANKS O' DOON.

E banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and

fair!

How can ye chant, ye little birds,

An' I sae weary, fu' o' care!

Thou 'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn: Thou minds me o' departed joys,

Departed never to return.

Thou 'lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird,
That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o' my fate.

Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine;

And ilka bird sang o' its luve,
And fondly sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree;
And my fause luver stole my rose,
But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

AFTON WATER.

LOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy

green braes,

Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song

thy praise;

in

My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny

den,