I’ll pu’ the budding rose, when Phœbus peeps in view, For it’s like a baumy kiss o’ her sweet bonny mou; The hyacinth’s for constancy, wi’ its unchanging blue, And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May. The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, And in her lovely bosom I’ll place the lily there; The daisy’s for simplicity and unaffected air, And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May. The hawthorn I will pu’, wi’ its locks o’ siller grey, Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o’ day, But the songster’s nest within the bush I winna tak away; And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May. The woodbine I will pu’ when the e’ening star is near, And the diamond drops o’ dew shall be her een sae clear: The violet’s for modesty which weel she fa’s to wear, And a’ to be a Posie to my ain dear May. I’ll tie the Posie round wi’ the silken band o’ luve, And I’ll place it in her breast, and I’ll swear by a’ above, That to my latest draught o’ life the band shall ne’er remove, And this will be a Posie to my ain dear May. MY LADY’S GOWN THERE’S GAIRS UPON’T My lord a-hunting he is gane, But hounds or hawks wi’ him are nane, By Colin’s cottage lies his game, If Colin’s Jenny be at hame. My lady’s gown there’s gairs upon’t, And gowden flowers sae rare upon’t; But Jenny’s jimps and jirkinet, My lord thinks muckle mair upon’t. My lady’s white, my lady’s red, And kith and kin o’ Cassillis’ blude, But her ten-pund lands o’ tocher guid Were a’ the charms his lordship lo’ed. Out o’er yon muir, out o’er yon moss, Where gor-cocks thro’ the heather pass, There wons auld Colin’s bonnie lass, A lily in a wilderness. Sae sweetly move her genty limbs, Like music notes o’ lover’s hymns: The diamond dew in her een sae blue, Where laughing love sae wanton swims. My lady’s dink, my lady’s drest, The flower and fancy o’ the west; But the lassie that a man lo’es best, O that’s the lass to make him blest. My lady’s gown there’s gairs upon’t, And gowden flowers sae rare upon’t; But Jenny’s jimps and jirkinet, My lord thinks muckle mair upon’t. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH IN APRIL, 1786 Wee modest crimson-tippèd flow’r, Thou’s met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my pow’r, Thou bonnie gem. Alas! it’s no thy neibor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet, Bending thee ’mang the dewy weet Wi’ spreckl’d breast, When upward springing, blythe to greet The purpling east.