In cart or car thou never reestit; The steyest brae thou wad hae faced it; Thou never lap, an’ stenned, and breastit, Then stood to blaw; But, just thy step a wee thing hastit, Thou snoov’t awa. My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a’, Four gallant brutes as e’er did draw; Forbye sax mae I’ve sell’t awa That thou hast nurst; They drew me thretteen pund an’ twa, The very warst. Mony a sair darg we twa hae wrought, An’ wi’ the weary warl’ fought! An’ mony an anxious day I thought We wad be beat! Yet here to crazy age we’re brought, Wi’ something yet. And think na, my auld trusty servan’, That now perhaps thou’s less deservin’, An’ thy auld days may end in starvin’; For my last fou, A heapit stimpart I’ll reserve ane Laid by for you. We’ve worn to crazy years thegither; We’ll toyte about wi’ ane anither; Wi’ tentie care I’ll flit thy tether To some hain’d rig, Where ye may nobly rax your leather, Wi’ sma’ fatigue. LASSIE WI’ THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS Now nature cleeds the flowery lea, And a’ is young and sweet like thee; O wilt thou share its joys wi’ me, And say thou’lt be my dearie O? Lassie wi’ the lint-white locks, Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, Wilt thou wi’ me tent the flocks? Wilt thou be my dearie O? The primrose bank, the wimpling burn, The cuckoo on the milk-white thorn, The wanton lambs at early morn Shall welcome thee, my dearie O. And when the welcome simmer-shower Has cheer’d ilk drooping little flower, We’ll to the breathing woodbine bower At sultry noon, my dearie O. When Cynthia lights, wi’ silver ray, The weary shearer’s hameward way, Thro’ yellow waving fields we’ll stray, And talk o’ love, my dearie O. And when the howling wintry blast Disturbs my lassie’s midnight rest; Enclaspèd to my faithfu’ breast, I’ll comfort thee, my dearie O. THE POSIE O Luve will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen, O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been; But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae green, And a’ to pu’ a Posie to my ain dear May. The primrose I will pu’, the firstling o’ the year, And I will pu’ the pink, the emblem o’ my dear, For she’s the pink o’ womankind, and blooms without a peer: And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May.