"Wattie gaed hoddlin' to the mill. 'Here's routh,' quo' he, 'to woo at will, Jenny an' Meg an' Bess an' Lill, Tibbie an' Kate an' Jane. Lasses,--I'm here a wooer to woo, Will ane o' ye come an' be my doo? I've siller, an' lan', an' mony a coo-- I'm tired o' lyin' my lane.' "The lasses skirled a loud 'tee hee!' But ilka ane cried, 'wull ye tak me?' Better an' auld man's dawtie be, Wi' walth o' gear, than nane. 'Wattie,' quo' they, 'just steek yer een, Grip wha ye like, she'll ne'er compleen; _Better a cuttie than wantin' a speen_-- Ye'se lie nae mair yer lane.'" "Noo, my sang's deen," quo Inglis; "I've the ca' To keep the pottie boilin'. Come awa, Lundie, my man, an' gie's your winsome Jean; Begin at ance--the seener ye'll be deen." "Inglis, wha yokes wi' you's a gowk, atweel! 'He needs a lang speen that sups wi' the deil!' But, troth, 'twere wrang to gar ye sup yer kail A wee thocht hetter than I wud mysel':-- Air--"_Laird o' Cockpen._" "In a wee thieket hoosie, far doon i' the glen, There lived a young lassie, the plague o' the men. Sae dainty, sae genty, sae canty an' keen, The wale o' the parish was Tipperty's Jean. The minister smiled till her braid i' the kirk, The dominie winkit wi' mony a smirk, An' douce-lookin' elders, on Saturday's e'en, Could crack aboot naething but Tipperty's Jean. "Auld Lowrie the laird, wi' his hat in his han', Says, 'Will ye tak' _me_, wi' my siller an' lan';' 'Mony thanks to ye, laird, but it's sinfu' gin ane Sud marry their grandad,' quo Tipperty's Jean. The doctor grew dowie, and maist like to dee, Sae wowf gat the lawyer he bade folks agree, An' Rob o' the Milltown an' Tam o' the Green Maist tint their scant wits aboot Tipperty's Jean. "The lasses gaed wand'ring their lanes i' the loan, The auld folks were girnin' wi' mony a groan; 'The warld's seerly gyte, sirs, there's never been seen Sic wark as they haud aboot Tipperty's Jean.' Nae dellin' was deen, nae thrashin', nae ploughin', The wark a' gaed wrang, sae thrang war they wooin'; Sic ridin', sic racin' there never was seen, The chiels were sae daft aboot Tipperty's Jean. "They happit aboot her like craws on a rig, A' fechtin', or fleechin', or crackin' fell big; 'Gae 'wa', sirs, to Freuchie, for brawly it's seen It's siller yer wooin',' quo Tipperty's Jean. 'Sin' auld uncle Davie cam' back owre the sea, An' left sic a hantle o' siller to me, I'm deaved wi' yer wooin' frae mornin' till e'en. The deil tak sic wooers,' quo Tipperty's Jean.