Thou'rt aye sae free informing me, Thou hast nae mind to marry; I'll be as free informing thee, Nae time hae I to tarry: I ken thy frien's try ilka means Frae wedlock to delay thee; Depending on some higher chance, But fortune may betray thee.
I ken they scorn my low estate, But that does never grieve me; For I'm as free as any he; Sma' siller will relieve me. I'll count my health my greatest wealth, Sae lang as I'll enjoy it; I'll fear nae scant, I'll bode nae want, As lang's I get employment.
But far off fowls hae feathers fair, And, aye until ye try them, Tho' they seem fair, still have a care; They may prove waur than I am. But at twal' at night, when the moon shines bright, My dear, I'll come and see thee; For the man that loves his mistress weel, Nae travel makes him weary.
[Footnote 1: The lass is identified as Ellison Begbie, a servant wench, daughter of a “Farmer Lang”.]
Tune--“If he be a Butcher neat and trim.”
On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells; Could I describe her shape and mein; Our lasses a' she far excels, An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
She's sweeter than the morning dawn, When rising Phoebus first is seen, And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
She's stately like yon youthful ash, That grows the cowslip braes between, And drinks the stream with vigour fresh; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
She's spotless like the flow'ring thorn, With flow'rs so white and leaves so green, When purest in the dewy morn; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
Her looks are like the vernal May, When ev'ning Phoebus shines serene, While birds rejoice on every spray; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
Her hair is like the curling mist, That climbs the mountain-sides at e'en, When flow'r-reviving rains are past; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, When gleaming sunbeams intervene And gild the distant mountain's brow; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
Her cheeks are like yon crimson gem, The pride of all the flowery scene, Just opening on its thorny stem; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.
Her bosom's like the nightly snow, When pale the morning rises keen, While hid the murm'ring streamlets flow; An' she has twa sparkling roguish een.