I spier'd for my coufin fu' couthy and sweet, If he had recover'd her hearing;

And how her new fhoon fit her auld fhachl't

feet;

But heavens! how he fell a-fwearing, a

fwearing,

But heavens! how he fell a-fwearing.

He begged for gude-fake! I wad be his wife,

Or else I wad kill him with forrow:

So e'en to preserve the poor body in life,

I think I maun wed him-to-morrow, to

morrow,

I think I maun wed him to-morrow.

O WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN.

Air.-"WE'LL GANG NAE MAIR TO YON TOWN."

WAT ye wha's in yon town,
Ye fee the ev'ning fun upon?

The faireft maid's in

yon town

That ev'ning fun is fhining on.

Now, haply down yon gay green shaw,
She wanders by yon spreading tree;
How bleft, ye flowers that round her blaw,
Ye catch the glances of her e'e!
How bleft, ye birds that round her fing,
And welcome in the blooming year!

And doubly welcome be the spring,
The season to my Lucy dear.

The fun blinks blythe on yon town,
And on yon bonie braes of Ayr;

But my delight in yon town,

And dearest joy, is Lucy fair.

Without my love, not a' the charms
Of Paradise could yield me joy;
But gi'e me Lucy in my arms,

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky.
My cave would be a lover's bower,
Tho' raging winter rent the air;
And she, a lovely little flower

That I would tent and fhelter there.

Yon finking fun's gane down upon; A fairer than's in yon town,

His fetting beam ne'er fhone upon. If angry fate is fworn my foe,

And suffering I am doom'd to bear, I, careless, quit aught elfe below,

But fpare me, fpare me Lucy dear. And while life's deareft blood is warm, Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart;

For fhe, as fairest is her form,

She has the trueft, kindest heart.

IN SIMMER WHEN THE HAY WAS

Air.-"

MAWN.

JOHN, COME KISS ME NOW."

I

N fimmer when the hay was mawn,

And corn wav'd green in ilka field,
While clover blooms white o'er the lea,
And rofes blaw in ilka bield;
Blythe Beffie in the milking shiel,

Says, I'll be wed come o't what will,
Out fpak' a dame in wrinkled eild,
Of gude advisement comes nae ill.

It's

ye ha'e wooers mony ane,

And laffie ye're but young, ye ken;
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale
A routhie butt, a routhie ben:
There's Johnie o' the Bufkie-glen,
Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre;
Tak' this frae me, my bonie hen,
It's plenty beets the lover's fire.

For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen,
I dinna care a single flie;

He lo'es fae weel his craps and kye,
He has nae love to fpare for me:
But blythe's the blink o' Robie's e’e,
And weel I wat he lo'es me dear
Ae blink o' him I wadna gie

For Bufkie-glen and a' his gear.

Oh! thoughtless laffie, life's a fecht, The cannieft gate, the ftrife is fair; ay fu-han't is fechtin beft,

But

A hungry care 's an unco care;

But fome will spend, and fome will spare, And wilfu' folk maun ha'e their will; Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair,

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill.

O gear will buy me rigs o' land,

And gear will buy me sheep and kye; But the tender heart o' leefome love,

We

The gowd and filler canna buy:

may be poor, my Rob and I,

Light is the burden love lays on ;

Content and love bring peace and joy,

What mair hae queens upon a throne?