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There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen, He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld

men ; He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay; As blithe and as artless as the lambs on the lea, And dear to my heart as the light to my e'e.

But Oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, And my daddie has naught but a cot-house and

yard; A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, The wounds I must hide that will soon be my



* The two first lines are taken from an old ballad—the rest is wholly original.


The day comes to me, but delight brings me

nane; The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane : I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist, And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

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O had she but been of a lower degree,
I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me!
O, how past descriving had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction no words can express !


DUNCAN GRAY cam here to woo,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
On blithe yule night when we were fu',

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Maggie coost her head fu' high,
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.


Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd :

Ha, ha, &c.
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, *

Ha, ha, 8c.
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleert and blin',
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn;

Ha, ha, 8c.

Time and chance are but a tide,

Ha! ha, &c.
Slighted love is sair to bide,

Ha, ha, 8c.
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie die ?
She may gae to-France for me !

Ha, ha, &c.

How it comes let doctors tell,

Ha, ha, 8c.
Meg grew sick—as he grew heal,

Ha, ha, &c.
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings;
And O, her een, they spak sic things !

Ha, ha, 8c.


* A well-known rock in the frith of Clyde.


Duncan was a lad o' grace,

Ha, ha, 8c.
Maggie's was a piteous case,

Ha, ha, 8c.
Duncan could na be her death,
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ;
Now they're crouse and canty baith.

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.*

4th December, 1792.

The foregoing I submit, my dear Sir, to your better judgment. Acquit them, or condemn them, as seemeth good in your sight. Duncan Gray is that kind of light-horse gallop of an air, which precludes sentiment. The ludicrous is its ruling feature.


* This has nothing in common with the old licentious ballad of Duncan Gray, but the first line, and part of the third. The rest is wholly original,


No. X.




O POOrTith cauld, and restless love,

Ye wreck my peace between ye;
Yet poortith a' I could forgive,
An' 'tweré na for


O why should fate sic pleasure have,

Life's dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love,

Depend on Fortune's shining ?

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This warld's wealth when I think on,

Its pride, and a' the lave o't; Fie, fie on silly coward man, That he should be the slave o't.

O why, 8c.


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