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Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse,
Since honour commands me how can I refuse?
Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee;
And losing thy favour I'd better not be.
I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame,
And, if I should chance to come glorious hame,
I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er,
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.

[From the Tea Table Miscellany.]



My Peggy is a young thing,

Just enter'd in her teens,
Fair as the day, and sweet as May,
Fair as the day, and always gay.
My Peggy is a young thing,

And I'm not very auld,
Yet well I like to meet her at

The wauking of the fauld.

My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,

Whene'er we meet alane,
I wish nae mair to lay my care,
I wish nae mair of a' that's rare.
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,

To a’ the lave I'm cauld;
But she gars a' my spirits glow

At wauking of the fauld.

My Peggy smiles sae kindly,

Whene'er I whisper love,
That I look down on a' the town,
That I look down upon a crown.
My Peggy smiles sae kindly,

It makes me blyth and bauld,
And naething gi’es me sic delight,

As wauking of the fauld.
My Peggy sings sae saftly,

When on my pipe I play ;
By a' the rest it is confess’d,
By a’ the rest, that she sings best.
My Peggy sings sae saftly,

And in her sangs are tauld,
With innocence the wale of sense,

At wauking of the fauld.

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Now wat ye wha I met yestreen,
Coming down the street, my jo ?
My mistress in her tartan screen,
Fu' bonny, braw, and sweet, my jo.
My dear, quoth I, thanks to the night,
That never wish'd a lover ill,
Since ye're out of your mither's sight,
Let's take a wauk up to the hill.

O Katy, wiltu' gang wi' me,
And leave the dinsome town a while ?
The blossom's sprouting frae the tree,
And a' the simmer's gaun to smile:
The mavis, nightingale, and lark,
The bleating lambs, and whistling hind,
In ilka dale, green, shaw, and park,
Will nourish health, and glad ye'r mind.

Soon as the clear goodman of day
Bends his morning-draught of dew,
We'll gae to some burn-side and play,
And gather flow'rs to busk ye'r brow;


the daisies on the green,
The lucken gowans frae the bog:
Between hands now and then we'll lean,
And sport upon the velvet fog.

There's up into a pleasant glen,
A wee piece frae my father's tow'r,
A canny, saft, and flow'ry den,
Which circling birks have form’d a bow'r:
Whene'er the sun grows high and warm,
We'll to the cauler shade remove,
There will I lock thee in mine arm,
And love and kiss, and kiss and love.

[From the Tea Table Miscellany, 1724. From the second stanza of this song, Percy undoubtedly got the hint of his beautiful ballad :

O Nancy wilt thou go with me,
Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town.

See Vol. I. p. 211.)



O Bessy Bell and Mary Gray,

They are twa bonny lassies, They bigg'd a bower on yon burn-brae,

And theek'd it o'er wi' rashes. Fair Bessy Bell I loo'd yestreen,

And thought I ne'er could alter ;
But Mary Gray's twa pawky een,

They gar my fancy falter.
Now Bessy's hair's like a lint-tap;

She smiles like a May morning,
When Phoebus starts frae Thetis’ lap,

The hills with rays adorning : White is her neck, saft is her hand,

Her waist and feet's fu’ genty ; With ilka grace she can command;

Her lips, O wow! they're dainty. And Mary's locks are like a craw,

Her een like diamonds' glances ; She's aye sae clean, redd up, and braw,

She kills whene'er she dances : Blyth as a kid, with wit at will,

She blooming, tight, and tall is ; And guides her airs sae gracefu' still,

O Jove, she's like thy Pallas.

Dear Bessy Bell and Mary Gray,

Ye unco sair oppress us ;
Our fancies jee between you twa,

Ye are sic bonny lasses :
Wae's me! for baith I canna get,

To ane by law we're stented ;
Then I'll draw cuts, and take my fate,

And be with ane contented.

[ See the beautiful old verses on which Ramsay founded this song, ante p. 36. From the Tea Table Miscellany, 1724.]



Gin ye meet a bonnie lassie,

Gi'e her a kiss and let her gae;
But if ye meet a dorty hizzie,

Fy gar rub her o'er wi’ strae.
Be sure ye dinna quat the grip

Of ilka joy when ye are young,
Before auld age your vitals nip,

And lay you twafald o’er a rung.
Sweet youth's a blythe and heartsome time;

Then, lads and lasses, while 'tis May
Gae pu' the gowan in its prime,

Before it wither and decay.
Watch the saft minutes of delyte,

When Jenny speaks beneath her breath,
And kisses, laying a' the wyte

On you, if she kepp ony skaith.

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