The carlin gaed thro' them like ony wud bear
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme),
Whae'er she gat hands on came near her nae mair;
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

A reekit wee Devil looks over the wa'

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), O, help, master, help, or she'll ruin us a',

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.'

The Devil he swore by the edge o' his knife
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme),
He pitied the man that was tied to a wife;

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

The Devil he swore by the kirk and the bell

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), He was not in wedlock, thank heav'n, but in hell; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

Then Satan has travell'd again wi' his pack

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), And to her auld husband he's carried her back; And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

'I hae been a Devil the feck o' my life

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme), 'But ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife;'

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

THERE WAS A LASS. †

TUNE-DUNCAN DAVISON.'

THERE was a lass, they ca'd her Meg,
And she held o'er the moors to spin;
There was a lad that follow'd her,

They ca'd him Duncan Davison.
The moor was driegh, and Meg was skiegh,
Her favour Duncan could na win;
For wi' the roke she wad him knock,
And ay she shook the temper-pin.

As o'er the moor they lightly foor,
A burn was clear, a glen was green,
Upon the banks they eased their shanks,
And ay
she set the wheel between :
But Duncan swore a haly aith,

That Meg should be a bride the morn;
Then Meg took up her spinnin' graith,
And flung them a' out o'er the burn.

We'll big a house-a wee, wee house,
And we will live like King and Queen,
Sae blythe and merry we will be
When ye set by the wheel at e'en.
A man may drink and no be drunk;
A man may fight and no be slain;
A man may kiss a bonnie lass,

And ay be welcome back again.

+ This Song is in the Musical Museum, p. 156, but without Burns' name.

THE WEARY PUND O' TOW.+

TUNE THE WEARY PUND O' TOW.'

THE weary pund, the weary pund,
The weary pund o' tow;
I think my wife will end her life
Before she spin her tow.

I bought my wife a stane o' lint
As gude as e'er did grow;
And a' that she has made o' that,
Is ae poor pund o' tow.

There sat a bottle in a bole,
Beyont the ingle low,

And

ay she took the tither souk To drouk the stowrie tow.

Quoth I, For shame, ye dirty dame,
Gae spin your tap o' tow!
She took the rock, and wi' a knock
She brak it o'er my pow.

+ This Song is in the Musical Museum, p. 362, but it is not attributed to Burns. In Thomson's Collection, vol. iv. p. 12, a new song to that tune, by Mrs. Hunter, is given, to which is added "the old Song to the same air," and which, with a few trifling variations is the one in the text. Mr. Allan Cunningham does not state upon what authority he has assigned it to Burns.

At last her feet-I sang to see't—
Gaed foremost o'er the knowe;
And or I wad anither jad,
I'll wallop in a tow.

The weary pund, the weary pund,
The weary pund o' tow!

I think

my wife will end her life Before she spin her tow.

THE PLOUGHMAN. +

TUNE-UP WI' THE PLOUGHMAN."

THE ploughman he's a bonnie lad,
His mind is ever true, jo,
His garters knit below his knee,
His bonnet it is blue, jo.

CHORUS.

Then up wi't a', my ploughman lad,
And hey, my merry ploughman ;
Of a' the trades that I do ken,
Commend me to the ploughman.

My ploughman he comes hame at e'en,
He's aften wat and weary;
Cast off the wat, put on the dry,

And gae to bed, my Dearie !

Up wi't a', &c.

+ Published in the Musical Museum, p. 173, but not with Burns' name to it.

I will wash my ploughman's hose,
And I will dress his o'erlay;
I will mak my ploughman's bed,
And cheer him late and early.
Up wi't a', &c.

I hae been east, I hae been west,
I hae been at Saint Johnston,
The bonniest sight that e'er I saw
Was th' ploughman laddie dancin'.
Up wi't a', &c.

Snaw-white stockins on his legs,
And siller buckles glancin';
A gude blue bannet on his head,
And O, but he was handsome !
Up wi't a', &c.

Commend me to the barn yard,
And the corn-mou, man;

I never gat my coggie fou
Till I met wi' the ploughman.
Up wi't a', &c.