John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And monie a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo. MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine. I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer, And neist my heart I'll wear her, For fear my jewel tine. She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine. The warld's wrack, we share o't, The warstle and the care o't; Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, And think my lot divine. DUNCAN GRAY Duncan Gray came here to woo, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, On blithe yule night when we were fou, 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, the wooing o't, Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn; Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Time and chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Slighted love is sair to bide, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie die? She may gae to--France for me! Ha, ha, the wooing o't. How it comes let doctors tell, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Meg grew sick--as he grew well, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings; And O, her een, they spak sic things! Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan was a lad o' grace, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Maggie's was a piteous case, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan couldna be her death, Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath; Now they're crouse and cantie baith! Ha, ha, the wooing o't. MY AIN KIND DEARIE O When o'er the hill the eastern star Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo; And owsen frae the furrow'd field Return sae dowf and wearie O; Down by the burn, where scented birks Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O. In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, My ain kind dearie O. Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, And I were ne'er sae wearie O, I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O.