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And gins and guns destroy our race?
“The counsel's good," a fox replies,
“Nay, then,” replies the feeble fox
A chicken, too, might do me good.”
AN THOU WERE MY AIN THING
I would love thee, I would love thee!
How dearly would I love thee!
Like bees that suck the morning dew
And gar the gods envy me.
Sae lang 's I had the use of light,
I'd tell how much I loo'd thee.
How fair and ruddy is my Jean!
Nane but mysell aboon thee.
I'd grasp thee to this breast of mine,
Formed hardy to defend thee.
Time's on the wing, and will not stay:
O let na scorn undo thee!
While Love does at his altar stand,
THE HIGHLAND LADDIE
But O they ’re vain and idly gaudy;
And manly looks of my Highland laddie!
CHORUS.–O my bonny, bonny Highland laddie !
My handsome, charming Highland laddie!
If I were free at will to chuse
To be the wealthiest Lawland lady,
With bonnet blew and belted plaidy.
The brawest beau in borrows town,
In a' his airs, with art made ready,
He's finer far in 's tartan plaidy.
O'er benty hill with him I'll run,
And leave my Lawland kin and dady;
He'll screen me with his Highland plaidy.
A painted room and silken bed
May please a Lawland laird and lady,
Behind a bush in 's Highland plaidy.
Few compliments between us pass :
I ca' him my dear Highland laddie;
Syne rows me in his Highland plaidy.
Nae greater joy I'll e'er pretend
Than that his love prove true and steady,
While Heaven preserve my Highland laddie.
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD
Beneath the south side of a craigy bield,
Patie. My Peggy is a young thing,
Just entered in her teens,
And I'm not very auld,
The wauking of the fauld.
This sunny morning, Roger, chears my blood,
Roger, I'm born, O Patie, to a thrawart fate;
50 But I, oppressed with never-ending grief, Maun ay despair of lighting on relief.
Patie. The bees shall loathe the flow'r and quit the hive.
The saughs on boggie ground shall cease to thrive,
55 Shall spill my rest or ever force à tear.
Roger. Sae might I say; but it's no easy done
65 Nor mair unlikely to a lass's eye; For ilka sheep ye have I'll number ten, And should, as ane may think, come farer ben.
Patie. But, ablins, nibour, ye have not a heart, And downa eithly wi' your cunzie part;
70 If that be true, what signifies your gear? A mind that's scrimpit never wants some care.
Roger. My byar tumbled, nine braw nowt were smoored, Three elf-shot were; yet I these ills endured. In winter last my cares were very sma',
75 Tho' scores of wethers perished in the snaw.
Patie. Were your bien rooms as thinly stocked as mine, Less ye wad loss and less ye wad repine: He that has just enough can soundly sleep; The o'ercome only fashes fouk to keep.
Patie. Sax good fat lambs, I sauld them ilka clute
90 I'll be mair canty wi't, and ne'er cry dool, Than you with all your cash, ye dowie fool!
Roger. Na, Patie, na! I'm nae sic churlish beast, Some other thing lies heavier at my breast: