A weel-stocked mailen, himsel’ for the laird, And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers; I never loot on that I kenn’d it, or car’d; But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers; But thought I might hae waur offers. But what wad ye think?—in a fortnight or less— The deil tak his taste to gae near her! He up the Gate-slack to my black cousin, Bess— Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her, could bear her; Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her. But a’ the niest week, as I petted wi’ care, I gaed to the tryst o’ Dalgarnock; But wha but my fine fickle wooer was there, I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock, a warlock, I glowr’d as I’d seen a warlock. But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, Lest neibours might say I was saucy; My wooer he caper’d as he’d been in drink, And vow’d I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, And vow’d I was his dear lassie. I spier’d for my cousin fu’ couthy and sweet, Gin she had recover’d her hearin’, And how her new shoon fit her auld schachl’t feet, But heavens! how he fell a swearin, a swearin, But heavens! how he fell a swearin. He begged, for gudesake, I wad be his wife, Or else I wad kill him wi’ sorrow; So e’en to preserve the poor body in life, I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow; I think I maun wed him to-morrow. This Is No My Ain Lassie Tune—“This is no my house.” Chorus—This is no my ain lassie, Fair tho, the lassie be; Weel ken I my ain lassie, Kind love is in her e’re. I see a form, I see a face, Ye weel may wi’ the fairest place; It wants, to me, the witching grace, The kind love that’s in her e’e. This is no my ain, &c. She’s bonie, blooming, straight, and tall, And lang has had my heart in thrall; And aye it charms my very saul, The kind love that’s in her e’e. This is no my ain, &c. A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, To steal a blink, by a’ unseen; But gleg as light are lover’s een, When kind love is in her e’e. This is no my ain, &c. It may escape the courtly sparks, It may escape the learned clerks; But well the watching lover marks The kind love that’s in her eye. This is no my ain, &c. O Bonie Was Yon Rosy Brier O bonie was yon rosy brier, That blooms sae far frae haunt o’ man; And bonie she, and ah, how dear! It shaded frae the e’enin sun. Yon rosebuds in the morning dew, How pure, amang the leaves sae green; But purer was the lover’s vow They witness’d in their shade yestreen. All in its rude and prickly bower, That crimson rose, how sweet and fair; But love is far a sweeter flower, Amid life’s thorny path o’ care.