She's bow-hough'd, she's beam shinn'd,
Ae limpin leg a haud-breed shorter;
She's twisted right, she 's twisted left,
To balance fair in ilka quarter :
She has a hump upon her breast,
The twin o' that upon her shouther:
Sic a wife, &c.

Auld baudrans by the ingle sits,
An' wi' her loof her face a-washin;
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig,

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion.
Her walie nieves like midden-creels;
Her face wad fyle the Logan-water :

Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wadna gie a button for her.

XCVII.

TO MARY.

TUNE-Ewe bughts, Marion.

WILL ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
And leave auld Scotia's shore?
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary,
Across th' Atlantic's roar?

O sweet grows the lime and the orange,
And the apple on the pine;

But a' the charms o' the Indies

Can never equal thine.

I hae sworn by the heavens to my Mary,
I hae sworn by the heavens to be true;
And sae may the heavens forget me,
When I forget my vow!

O plight me your faith, my Mary,
And plight me your lily-white hand;
O plight me your faith, my Mary,
Before I leave Scotia's strand.

We hae plighted our troth, my Mary,
In mutual affection to join,

And curst be the cause that shall part us!
The hour, and the moment o' time!

XCVIII.

HIGHLAND MARY.

TUNE-Katharine Ogie.

YE banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie !

There simmer first unfald her robes,

And there the langest tarry;

For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,

As underneath their fragrant shade,
I clasp'd her to my bosom !

The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me, as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder:
But, O! fell death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early!

Now green 's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance,
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!

But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.

XCIX.

THE BANKS O' DOON.

TUNE-The Caledonian Hunt's Delight.

YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?

How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary, fu' o' care?

Thou 'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn: Thou minds me o' departed joys,

. Departed, never to return.

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,

To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And ilka bird sang o' its luve,

And fondly sae did I o' mine.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree;
And my fause luver stole my rose,
But, ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

C.

BEWARE O' BONNIE ANN.

YE gallants bright, I red you right,
Beware o' bonnie Ann;
Her comely face sae fu' o' grace,
Your heart she will trepan.
Her een sae bright, like stars by night,

Her skin is like the swan ;

Sae jimpy laced her genty waist,
That sweetly ye might span.

Youth, grace, and love, attendant move,
Aud pleasure leads the van;

In a' their charms, and conquering arms,
They wait on bonnie Ann.

The captive bands may chain the hands,
But love enslaves the man :
Ye gallants braw, I red you a',

Beware o' bonnie Ann.

CI.

YON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS.

YON wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed,

And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed:

Where the grouse, &c.

Not Gowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny shores, To me hae the charms o' yon wild, mossy moors; For there, by a lanely, sequester'd clear stream, Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream.

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path, Ilk stream foaming down its ain green narrow strath;

For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, While o'er us unheeded fly the swift hours o' love.

She is not the fairest, although she is fair;
O' nice education, but sma' is her share;
Her parentage humble as humble can be ;
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo’es me.