For though his locks be lyart gray, And though his brow be beld aboon; Yet I hae seen him on a day, The pride of a’ the parishen. The cardin’ o’t, the spinnin’ o’t, The warpin’ o’t, the winnin’ o’t; When ilka ell cost me a groat, The tailor staw the linin’ o’t. JOHN ANDERSON MY JO John Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snow; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a canty day, John, We’ve had wi’ ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, And hand in hand we’ll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. AND MAUN I STILL ON MENIE DOAT Again rejoicing nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues, Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steep’d in morning dews. And maun I still on Menie doat, And bear the scorn that’s in her e’e? For it’s jet, jet black, an’ it’s like a hawk, An’ it winna let a body be! In vain to me the cowslips blaw, In vain to me the violets spring; In vain to me, in glen or shaw, The mavis and the lintwhite sing. The merry ploughboy cheers his team, Wi’ joy the tentie seedsman stalks, But life to me’s a weary dream, A dream of ane that never wauks. The wanton coot the water skims, Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, The stately swan majestic swims, And every thing is blest but I. The shepherd steeks his faulding slap, And owre the moorlands whistles shrill, Wi’ wild, unequal, wand’ring step I meet him on the dewy hill. And when the lark, ’tween light and dark, Blythe waukens by the daisy’s side, And mounts and sings on flittering wings, A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. Come, Winter, with thine angry howl, And raging bend the naked tree; Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, When Nature all is sad like me! And maun I still on Menie doat, And bear the scorn that’s in her e’e? For it’s jet, jet black, an’ it’s like a hawk, An’ it winna let a body be! DUNCAN DAVISON There was a lass, they ca’d her Meg, And she held o’er the moors to spin; There was a lad that follow’d her, They ca’d him Duncan Davison. The moor was driegh, and Meg was skiegh, Her favour Duncan could na win; For wi’ the rock she wad him knock, And ay she shook the temper-pin.