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Thoch that this warld be verie strange;
And theves hes done my rowmis range,

And teynd my fald:
Yet wald I leif, and byde ane change;

Thoch I be ald.

Now me to spulyie sum not spairis ;
To tak my geir no captane cairis ;:

Thai ar sa bald.
Yit tyme may cum, may mend my sairis ;

Thoch I be ald.

Sum now, be force of men of weir,
My hous, my landis, and my geir,

Fra me thai hald,
Yit, as I may, sall mak gud cheir;

Thoch I be ald.

So weill is kend my innocence,
That I will not, for nane offence,

Flyte lyk ane skald:
Bot thark God, and tak patience;

For I am ald.

For eild, and my infirmitie,
Warme clayths ar bettir far, for me

To keip fra cald;
Nor in dame Venus' chamber be ;

Now being ald.

of Venus' play past is the heit;
For I may not the mistirs beit

Of Meg, nor Mald.
For ane young las I am not meit;

I am sa ald.

The fairest wenche in all this toun,
Thoch I hir had in hir best goun,

Rycht braivlie brald;
With hir I micht not play the loun;

I am sa ald.

My wyf sumtyme wala talis trow,
And mony leisings weill allow,

War of me tald:
Scho will not eyndill on me now;

And I sa ald.

My hors, my harnes, and my speir;
And all uther, my hoisting geir,

Now may be sald.
I am not abill for the weir;

I am sa ald.

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aye w"pleamre,

Will wrought air, but aye wat
Jean the habe day span and sang;
Will and Hans hér constant heasure :
Blest wi them na

seemd lang)


Published by Khuill, Blackie & Co. Glasgow, and A.Fullerton & Co, Edinburgh.

Quhan young men cumis fra the grene,
(l'layand at the fute-ball had bene)

With brokin spald;
I thank my God, I want my ene;

And ain sa ald.

Thoch I be sweir to ryd or gang;
Thair is sumthing, I've wantit lang,

Fane have I wald-
Thame punysit that did me wrang;

Thoch I be ald.




Wha was ance like Willie Gairlace,

Wha in neighbouring town or farm ?
Beauty's bloom shone in his fair face,

Deadly strength was in his arm !

Wha wi' Will could rin or wrastle ?

Throw the sledge, or toss the bar ?
Hap what would, he stood a castle,

Or for safety, or for war:

Warm his heart, and mild as manfu',

With the bauld he bauld could be;
But to friends wha had their handfu',

Purse and service aye ware free.

Whan he first saw Jeanie Miller,

Wha wi' Jeanie could compare?
Thousands had mair braws and siller,

But were ony half sae fair ?

Saft her smile raise like May morning,

Glinting o'er Demait's * brow:
Sweet! wi' opening charms adorning

Strevlin's lovely plains below!
Kind and gentle was her nature;

At ilk place she bore the bell;
Sic a bloom, and shape, and stature!

But her look nae tongue can tell !
Such was Jean, whan Will first mawing,

Spied her on a thraward beast;
Flew like fire, and just when fa'ing

Kept her on his manly breast.
Light he bore her, pale as ashes,

Cross the meadow, fragrant, green!
Placed her on the new-mawn rashes,

Watching sad her opening een.
Such was Will, whan poor Jean fainting

Drapt into a lover's arms;
Wakened to his saft lamenting;

Sighed, and blushed a thousand charms.
Soon they loo'd, and soon were buckled;

Nane took time to think and rue.
Youth and worth and beauty cuppled;

Love had never less to do.
Three short years flew by fu' canty,

Jean and Will thought them but ane;
Ilka day brought joy and plenty,

Ilka year a dainty wean.
Will wrought sair, but aye wi' pleasure ;
Jean, the hale day, spun and

Will and weans, her constant treasure,

Blest with them, nae day seemed lang; # One of the Ochil hills, near Stirling. Dum-ma-chit, (Gaelic), the hill of the good prospect. It is pronounced Demyit.

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