On ilka hand the burnies trot, And meet below my theekit cot; The scented birk and hawthorn white, Across the pool their arms unite, Alike to screen the birdie’s nest, And little fishes’ caller rest; The sun blinks kindly in the beil’, Where blythe I turn my spinnin’ wheel. On lofty aiks the cushats wail, And Echo cons the doolfu’ tale; The lintwhites in the hazel braes, Delighted, rival ither’s lays; The craik amang the claver hay, The pairtrick whirring o’er the ley, The swallow jinkin’ round my shiel, Amuse me at my spinnin’ wheel. Wi’ sma’ to sell, and less to buy, Aboon distress, below envy, O wha wad leave this humble state, For a’ the pride of a’ the great? Amid their flairing, idle toys, Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, Can they the peace and pleasure feel Of Bessy at her spinnin’ wheel? Love For Love Ithers seek they ken na what, Features, carriage, and a’ that; Gie me love in her I court, Love to love maks a’ the sport. Let love sparkle in her e’e; Let her lo’e nae man but me; That’s the tocher-gude I prize, There the luver’s treasure lies. Saw Ye Bonie Lesley O saw ye bonie Lesley, As she gaed o’er the Border? She’s gane, like Alexander, To spread her conquests farther. To see her is to love her, And love but her for ever; For Nature made her what she is, And never made anither! Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, Thy subjects, we before thee; Thou art divine, fair Lesley, The hearts o’ men adore thee. The deil he could na scaith thee, Or aught that wad belang thee; He’d look into thy bonie face, And say—“I canna wrang thee!” The Powers aboon will tent thee, Misfortune sha’na steer thee; Thou’rt like themselves sae lovely, That ill they’ll ne’er let near thee. Return again, fair Lesley, Return to Caledonie! That we may brag we hae a lass There’s nane again sae bonie. Fragment Of Song No cold approach, no altered mien, Just what would make suspicion start; No pause the dire extremes between, He made me blest—and broke my heart. I’ll Meet Thee On The Lea Rig 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 weary O; Down by the burn, where birken buds Wi’ dew are hangin clear, my jo, I’ll meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind Dearie O. At midnight hour, in mirkest glen, 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 weary O, I’ll meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind Dearie O.