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Her lovely eyes with tears ran o'er,

Repenting her rash sin-
And aye she mourn’d the fatal hour

She rose and loot me in.

But who could cruelly deceive,

Or from such beauty part ?
I lov'd her so, I could not leave

The charmer of my heart :
We wedded, and I thought me blest

Such loveliness to win ;
And now she thanks the happy hour

She rose and loot me in.

(First printed in the Tea Table Miscellany, 1724. The versions of Ramsay and Herd have not here been printed on account of their indelicacy. I have printed Allan Cunningham's copy of the song in preference to Mr. Chambers', as having more of the old spirit in it. The present song has been claimed by Ritson as an English pro. duction.)



Wha wadnae be in love

Wi' bonnie Maggie Lauder !
A piper met her gaun to Fife,

And spier'd what was't they ca'd her :
Right scornfully she answered him,

Begone, you hallan-shaker;
Jog on your gate, you blether-skate,

My name is Maggie Lauder.

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Maggie, quoth he, now by my bags,

I'm fidging fain to see thee,
Sit down by me, my bonnie bird,

In troth I winna steer thee;
For I'm a piper to my trade,

My name is Rab the Ranter: The lasses loup as they were daft,

When I blaw up my chanter.

Piper, quo' Meg, hae ye your bags,

Or is your drone in order ?
If you be Rab, I've heard of you,-

Live you upon the border?
The lasses a', baith far and near,

Have heard o' Rab the Ranter-
I'll shake my foot wi' right good will,

Gif you'll blaw up your chanter.

Then to his bags he flew wi' speed,

About the drone he twisted;
Meg up and walloped o’er the green,

For brawlie could she frisk it :
Weel done, quoth he ; play up, quoth she;

Weel bobbed ! quo Rab the Ranter ; 'Tis worth my while to play, indeed,

When I hae sic a dancer.

Weel hae you played your part, quo Meg,

Your cheeks are like the crimsonThere's nane in Scotland plays sae weel

Since we lost Habbie Simpson.*

* A celebrated piper in Renfrewshire.

I've lived in Fife, baith maid and wife,

These ten years and a quarter ;
Gin ye should come to Anster Fair,

Spier ye for Maggie Lauder.

[“ This old song, so pregnant with Scottish naiveté and energy, is much relished by all ranks notwithstanding its broad wit and palpable allusions. Its language is a precious model of imitation : sly, sprightly, and forcibly expressive. Maggie's tongue wags out the nicknames of Rob the piper with all the careless lightsomeness of unrestrained gaiety.”—Burns.

From Herd's Collection, first Edition. 8vo. 1769. The second Edition in two volumes did not appear till 1776.]


The bride cam’ out o' the byre,

An' O as she dighted her cheeks !
Sirs, I'm to be married the night,

An' have neither blankets nor sheets :
Have neither blankets nor sheets,

Nor scarce a coverlet too;
The bride that has a' to borrow
Has e’en right mickle ado.
Woo'd and woo’d and married,

Married and woo'd and a',
And was she nae very well off

That was woo'd and married and a'.

Out spake the bride's father,

As he cam' in frae the pleugh ;
O haud your tongue, my dochter,

And ye's get gear enough ;

The stirk that stands i’ th' tether,

And our bra' bawsint yade, Will carry ye hame your corn, What wad

ye be at, ye jade? Out spake the bride's mither,

What deil needs a' this pride : I had nae a plack in my pouch

That night I was a bride ;
My gown was linsy-woolsy,

And ne'er a sark ava ;
An' ye hae ribbons an' buskin's,

Mae than ane or twa.
What's the matter, quo' Willie,

Tho' we be scant o'claes,
We'll creep the closer thegither,

And we'll smore a the fieas : Simmer is coming on,

And we'll get teats o’ woo, And we'll get a lass o' our ain,

And she'll spin claiths anew. Out spake the bride's brither,

As he cam' in wi’ the kye; Poor Willie wad ne'er hae ta’en ye

Had he kent ye as weel as I; For ye’re baith proud and saucy,

And no for a poor man's wife ; Gin I canna get a better,

I’se ne'er tak ane i' my life. Out spake the bride's sister,

As she came in frae the byre; O gin I were but married,

It's a' that I desire :

But we poor fouk maun live single,

And do the best we can;
I dinna care what I should want,

If I could get a man.

[First published by David Herd in 1769. It is an excellent and an ancient song, says Mr. Cunningham.]


As walking forth to view the plain,

Upon a morning early,
While May's sweet scent did cheer my brain,

From flowers which grew so rarely ;
I chanc'd to meet a pretty maid, .

She shin'd, though it was foggie ;
I ask'd her name: Kind Sir, she said,

My name is Kath'rine Ogie.

I stood a while, and did admire,

To see a nymph so stately;
So brisk an air there did appear

In a country-maid so neatly:
Such natural sweetness she display'd

Like a lilie in a bogie ;
Diana's self was ne'er array'd

Like this same Kath'rine Ogie.

Thou flow'r of females, beauty's queen,

Who sees thee, sure must prize thee;
Though thou art dress'd in robes but mean,

Yet these cannot disguise thee;

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